I strutted into the balcony still half asleep,
yawning, slightly blinded by the rising sun,
a nascent wind unabashedly kissed me
and scurried off, no sooner I whiffed a
familiar scent.

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We look at the vast expanse before us, calm, flowing water, mirror to a flock of teal overhead, aerial on their yearly ritual. I sit a few feet away from you, the distance between us lit up by the setting sun, replete with hues from the marigold, marigold you wore in abundance, on the back of your hair, tied neatly in a bun, round, telling me our life was now complete, that we could begin anywhere, and be nothing but ourselves.

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I've begun to catch shards of cynicism
begotten from lack of assiduous courage,
that life has instilled over years of toil
without progress or purpose or meaning.

Come see me in the light that dances
from the edges still stuck, protruding out
harbouring all the colours life could offer
imbued as the horizon of the setting sun.

For these are now part of my being, and
plucking them out might be an option
though not without a river of crimson
like Christ on the Friday of crucifixion.

But no sight of the Sunday of redemption.

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The river arrests golden hues,
gifts from a departing visitor,
a deviant droplet wakes up
to the glistening palette below,
like a moth embracing fire,
takes the plunge buoyed by
pompous ambitions of conquest,
spurred on by devout followers,
childlings birthed by the tempest,
the river rejoices to fresh fodder,
devours every blow, retains its
golden glow, waits for the next
round of foolish downpour.

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I realize that we are together on opposite ends,
not meeting, separated by Life's reveries,
unaware of the state of the other's inner rumblings
discordant, yearning resonance amid growing reticence,
like the banks of a gurgling stream flowing unhindered
consuming all in its path, unperturbed, onward,
meandering at times at opportune corners,
where the ends steal ephemeral moments in proximity,
realizing that is all there is to existing.

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Grief is a hollow feeling, empty, gaping,
white, allowing every colour to pass through,
not retaining comfort from anyone, in any hue,
like a creeper that grows slowly, it leans on you
rests gently, hugging fresh crevices the heart brews,
usurping healing from the warm corners of light
ravenous appetite, blanketing, offers no respite,
until one day, it succumbs to fragrant cries
that sprout all over and subsume its might,
bring solace to your endless sentence,
spurring you on the journey of acceptance.

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It is the silence of the night that arrests your presence,
summons the dormant artist within to rise to the surface,
like a ground squirrel peeking out from its burrow,
awakening from self-imposed stupor, hibernating,
knowing it is safe in the tranquil of the dark sky,
devoid of the judgement that light carries and radiates,
to begin the ritual of gathering the acorn of doubt,
strewn across the dewy greens, sniffed out by habit,
ready to be sieved into meaning.

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Trains of thoughts rummaging through an idle mind,
restless, like the shrill consistent call of a barbet,
perched up-top, on the high deciduous branches,
obscured to the naked eye, engaged in a trilling match
with a distant neighbour, truant yet attentive to each other,
braking on the desolate station of belonging - wintry,
devoid of warmth, staring back with vacuous eyes
ready to be filled with dreams from a stranger,
if only they were to alight.

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I am just a nice guy,
trying to finish First.

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