Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

Just Something

-Baleful Basilisk

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.

Tock.

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?

But.

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.

Solitary

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.

Philosophy.

Helps with finding excuses. I think.

As I read Nietzsche’s rants? and wonder,

Why I find it funnier than Wodehouse.

Enough.

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.

Laughter, then.

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.

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