By Ridhima Aira Behl
The final act of all romantics is to plead goodbye
So I did, to let go, in an untimely fashion
To rest in agony, beneath an abandoned quarry
They dug a grave, and we made it deeper
After all, how much more is there to feel ?
Bone dry empathy cremated in a chartered vault
I should sue these bystanders for indifference
Since my spirit has turned callous, in-between
Scars filmed, in silent greys on a battlefield
Like pride bestowed upon by six strings
Steps on a corpse so devoid of sorority
A morgue created from despondent worship
Failed revival of a lost and latent Atlantis
Pleading audits for partisan convictions
Such fickle devotion, such sour adoration
The cruelty of our jagged memory field
Tranquility of our shade, disrupted by blinding lights
Leading us to prophetic paths till the breach
How vicious, to be lured in by stars
professing to be destiny
Fate spilled needlessly in our humdrum,
dormant dreams
Manipulating the quiet to keep an even score
Folding relics through cryptic metaphors
I trace so reluctantly, the evidence that bleeds
Burried deep within, outlines of a twin gaze
Only ours to have been, once condemned,
Who’s going to mourn this anyway ?
Now I do lie with the weeds, teary-eyed
Under starry skies, wailing, I sort through
Pleas in vain to their light’s honour
Deafening, the answers that never made
An aching beauty of a life never lived
Could’ve been forever, one lasting lie
It never came, instead the farewell echoes
The cruelty of an undone memory field