Shamasis Bhattacharya

You feel the tender should,
But it does not when it could.
You map its wean, its silent route,
Yet it moves not, stands mute.

Peeping through your own eyes,
You dream of wisps, of clouded skies.
With wrinkled skin and furrowed brows,
You feel that life never allows.

Still fresh in life’s stern game,
Where responsibility lays a hidden claim.
Only experience, with gentle sway,
Assures a path, a clear driveway.

But when life toys with emotions deep,
Stirring those who in shadows weep.
Lost are the saints, their possession meek,
Bewildered in the games we seek.

Your life seeks a desperate escape,
From fears you flee, a new shape.
Feeding on echoes of your own voice,
Cursing the jeers, the former choice.

At last, you see with weary eyes,
How life its futility belies.
And relationships, a similar guise,
All but a stage, a clever disguise.

Then life turns, starts anew,
Speaking in tongues, in languages few.
Lost deep in the trance of morning’s dew,
You forge ahead, the past to eschew.

You leave behind your own decay,
Dress anew, in bright array.
A clown’s garb, with roses play,
The jester’s part, come what may.

But the past lurks, waits ahead,
For a crack, a sign, a moment’s dread.
A storm awaits, with its thunderous lead,
To drop its tears on your unmade bed.

And so your dream again does shatter,
Looking back on what doesn’t matter.
Laughing at the days, the chaotic clatter,
When life itself was all to gather.

We begin anew, with wounds concealed,
In new attire, our fates resealed.
Hiding scars within a treasure chest,
Ready once more, life’s unending quest.