Shwetima Sakshi

I close my eyes,
into the infinite dark I dive.
A narrow beam of spotlight,
highlighs blurred vision,
I hardly remind.
Through the suspended wishes
that I strongly adher,
floating in the gangling beam
across half opened eyelids,
or broken consince,
whichever cater;
I fantasise a bollywood scene.
I fantasise a bollywood scene,
am a part of this stage.
I move forth playing my role
and cherish all built by someone else.
And it's funny it's serene.
I find it as perfect as forks and knives
alligned across the plates on a fine dine.
And the clips as crisp, as blank and flexible
as that ironed white napkin beside.
I take my hot seat,
I am the Alice in my wonderland.
I, then wonder:
How can spoons be aligned across the plates ?
They are mere tangents which may meet.
And this napkin , it has been used by all
dusted manytimes; now back to its seat.
The spot, the stage, the role
was never as mine, as mine it could be,
Am also not me there
but a sinking fallacy or just:
just, a social-emotional epidemic it could be.
With me playing with closed eyes
and still lying sceptical, I raise a question:
Will I fantasise myself, than just a course?
I still lie there unanswered,
into the infinite with my eyes closed.

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