By Suyog Rai
I am not really a storyteller of sorts,
I tend to let my mind wander too far; too often.
It’s very hard for me to keep things concise.
A magic spell here, a murder tale there,
A romance under moonlight, a forlorn socialite,
The boughs of trees howling over torrential rains;
The agony and the ecstasy of a torrid affair.
Somewhere within all these scenarios
I plot and scheme my own incoherence,
Like the reflection of a blazing sky
Burning upon an idle lake,
Rippled endlessly by autumn leaves;
Like those timid butterflies, so restless,
So disquiet within my chest,
In each breath, looking for a way out;
Impatient in every way I can appear
To tell you how much I adore
This fleeting moment I have with you.
If only my imagination could manifest
Even a pale imitation of our conversations,
I would have whisked you off to our Neverland,
Safe between the pages of yesteryears.
But all these make-believe fantasies of sordid mind,
With all their plot armors and polished links,
Leave me at the mercy of my ineptitude;
So pathetic, so cruel.
Now I sit stoic against an empty page,
Pretending to fill it with an empty world,
With shallow words and hollow desires,
Before I discard them and start all over again.