In that 4' * 4' glass house,
Colored fishes roam about
alien trees, look at this side of the world
where living doesn't create bubbles,
Neither do they burst.
Two souls live in a bigger cage
and take care of the 4' * 4',
Happily taking pride in sheltering
orphaned dreams, that come so close to the glass house
and go back nudging the belgian wall.
They pity, they laugh.
Fishes can't cry.
On some other days,
Satin hopes rejuvenates with candled romance.
The two shadows become one.
Their souls lie on the white carpet
where conjugal stains used to frequent.
Cleanliness is so unworthy at times.
Around the time, that
ticks-tocks and ticks-tocks,
upon hourly insecurities of a clock
that mumbles and counts the path it has traversed,
ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong -
they keep track of absence and quarrel.
Presence instigates bitterness of the two.
The clock stops at times, or whispers low.
It has two helping hands.
In the bed they sleep, distant.
But dreams are not measured.
Surpassing their sedated unwillingness,
one comes into the other's world.
Silk is what is in between.
They see through each other.
In orchestrated awkwardness
one comes to sense
And helps the other to erase the smile
that was hanging in the corner, unconsciously so.
They start from the beginning, again.
Now one prefers perversion to take hold of his.
The other fights and kills and dips her hand in blood.
No one wakes up that night.
There comes the morning.
Souls enact strangers.
With a perfect red apple and
scrambled as the egg is,
coupled diseases suffocate.
They run, not for the proteins
but of congestion of some deeper viral.
Amongst all these, during the remaining course,
they depart with the same keys
and use the same surname at promotional pages,
guarantee each others' presence in gatherings
and leave a neat nameplate and a postbox.
Over the mutual agreement of some common things
such as above,
One clock, a handful of colored fishes, a neat household,
unstained bedcovers and carpets
reflect sadness over a mute pretense...
... that took an oath of being real around the fire, someday.
In a 4' * 4', fishes cry.
SoUmY@
Colored fishes roam about
alien trees, look at this side of the world
where living doesn't create bubbles,
Neither do they burst.
Two souls live in a bigger cage
and take care of the 4' * 4',
Happily taking pride in sheltering
orphaned dreams, that come so close to the glass house
and go back nudging the belgian wall.
They pity, they laugh.
Fishes can't cry.
On some other days,
Satin hopes rejuvenates with candled romance.
The two shadows become one.
Their souls lie on the white carpet
where conjugal stains used to frequent.
Cleanliness is so unworthy at times.
Around the time, that
ticks-tocks and ticks-tocks,
upon hourly insecurities of a clock
that mumbles and counts the path it has traversed,
ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong -
they keep track of absence and quarrel.
Presence instigates bitterness of the two.
The clock stops at times, or whispers low.
It has two helping hands.
In the bed they sleep, distant.
But dreams are not measured.
Surpassing their sedated unwillingness,
one comes into the other's world.
Silk is what is in between.
They see through each other.
In orchestrated awkwardness
one comes to sense
And helps the other to erase the smile
that was hanging in the corner, unconsciously so.
They start from the beginning, again.
Now one prefers perversion to take hold of his.
The other fights and kills and dips her hand in blood.
No one wakes up that night.
There comes the morning.
Souls enact strangers.
With a perfect red apple and
scrambled as the egg is,
coupled diseases suffocate.
They run, not for the proteins
but of congestion of some deeper viral.
Amongst all these, during the remaining course,
they depart with the same keys
and use the same surname at promotional pages,
guarantee each others' presence in gatherings
and leave a neat nameplate and a postbox.
Over the mutual agreement of some common things
such as above,
One clock, a handful of colored fishes, a neat household,
unstained bedcovers and carpets
reflect sadness over a mute pretense...
... that took an oath of being real around the fire, someday.
In a 4' * 4', fishes cry.
SoUmY@
Comments
This will stay with me.Bookmarked. Turned over n versed..again n again n again.
Did they bite off more than what they could chew
unable to fathom the other whom they thought they knew
How and when did the time come in between the two?
they stand in front of the belgian glass and wonder who's who.
Soumya, excellent work.
But I came back for that choked up feeling that I like to sometimes revel in.
You know.
@Govind. Brilliant lines, on the verse. How well you capture that nuance in that five line nutshell. Awed!
Carry on
cheers
Simply authentic!
Aayushi, always a support, thanks.
Govind, :) You create a dream within a dream ( Inception?)
Usha ma'am, YES. Your presence is so comforting. Add to that another two sugar cubes :D Thank you!
Priyama, You color, word and both. Thanks artist!
Writuparna, Writuchakre pore gechhilam :)
Maria, thanks for that personal adverse-tisement.
Mahita, its a pleasure. God bless.