Note: For a better experience it is recommended that you read the poem while playing the given song in the background : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hPdX389kLxI. Thank you 🙂 .
That rope is twisted.
But I am the cat curiosity killed.
Not once, but four times over. Tick, Tock, Tick.
Five lives left.
I like puzzles.
My brain is addicted to the high,
That accompanies understanding.
Everything has math sneaked into it somewhere.
I’m twisting, with pleasure. I choose the hard paths.
Without regret. I love lonely treks. And silence.
And rare tea with beautiful strangers.
I love them, all of them. In my own, free manner.
Every single person I shared a tea with.
But they have threads in their clothes. Some have ropes.
I am not an animal in some Jungle book?
If I were, I would be Bagheera. Not an overbearing Sher Khan.
Not the strong, protective mother. And not a domesticated cow in a herd.
Though I would love them both to no end.
I fear that if I stay more than a few days,
They will throw light, strong threads on me.
I am afraid I won’t see them, and one day when:
The noose tightens. I’ll suffocate.
I am not afraid because I won’t escape.
I will, if I must. I’m afraid I’ll break threads.
The snap of which will not be felt in my bones alone.
Seemingly hard to describe how:
I fear that thin threads.
Will force me dead in a way,
Ropes cannot. They cut deep.
Helps with finding excuses. I think.
As I read Nietzsche’s rants? and wonder,
Why I find it funnier than Wodehouse.
Of archaic writers and their absurdities, though.
I was laughing at Nietzsche, the way he laughed at Plato
Socrates and Voltaire. The whole bunch of them. Not really, though.
I think it’s good. I wonder who would laugh at me.
It should make me turn in my sleep, or my remains whip up a small wind.
In a way that would be amusing, not frightful.
Because sickness must end somewhere.
Stunning how even cold sunsets remind me of the dawn these days
When I am wrapped in a sweater of warmth, dreams and thought.
The one that was torn away by force. Leaving me:
Dirty, brave and naked.
Wrapped in mud, growing steel shanks.
I missed the soft, mangled sweater through all these years:
To my own consternation:
I find myself knitting scarves again.