Sometimes, I hear explosions bold and bright,
Something screams with all its might.
It slows down at night and makes its bed at dawn,
But every day, it fights like there is nothing left to mourn.
The sound, so crass and full of violence,
It threatens to unravel the fibres of my hard-earned silence,
It seems to have started cradling hatred,
Loath is around the corner and the lines have faded.
The sound trudges and moans and growls,
It demands to be heard and ruthlessly scowls.
It isn’t easy being shut behind iron bars,
They jut out like bones and remind you of the missing stars.
It is adamant in its beliefs as it shuns away the songs of birds,
It sings a melancholic tune, devoid of rhythm and words.
It has forgotten the feel of winter winds and the salt of a beach wave,
It dies a little every day and prays for a magical save.
It has lost hair and clutches its teeth tight in the fist of its palms,
It has learned to bend at the knees and recite a couple of psalms.
Its skin is wrinkled like paper and its eyes, are fixed at a mark nowhere to be seen.
It is a catastrophe inside my mind; nothing but a dreadful scene.
But the hearty crunch of dried autumn leaves,
The earthy pungence of mossy, hooded eaves.
The sweetness of gentle kisses on the crown of my head,
The gratifying sight of the ruffled side of our bed.
Long limbs peeking from under the duvet,
Desserts with chocolate mint and strawberry velvet.
Omelettes with onion and chilies and cheese,
And wine that hits like a respite-filled spring breeze.
Walking bare feet on freshly trimmed grass,
The sound of crickets accompanying you like the church choir on Sunday mass.
The taste of ripe mangoes, as the pulp melts against my tongue,
The sourness of cheap oranges tickling my bones and briefly turning me young.
The blueness of the local beach with no visitors,
The redness of the twilight sky which has a thousand different admirers.
The vivid green of the plant that sits patiently on my empty window sill,
The yellow of its stout pot which gleams in a silent thrill.
The snort at the end of a friend’s laugh,
And the smile of the other who pays for dinner on your behalf.
It is simple, isn’t it?
Life is meant to be lived under a blanket of lights, starkly lit.
Sometimes, I hear explosions bold and bright,
Something laughs with every bit of joy and delight.
My soul has burst into a thousand shades of mirth,
It feels tender like a fresh page, like an iridescent celebration, a new birth.
Written by Vaishnavi K for MTTN
Edited by Aditi Atreya for MTTN
Artwork by Sumi for MTTN
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