Quads splattered in blue, green and white,
Half-finished building blocks of a whimsical mite.
But what was she building?
A road of greenery and cotton clouds?
Or the ripples of a Mediterranean tide?
Feeble fingers of a newborn Moon clawed the curtain aside.
Amused as I was at its myriad attempts,
Sobered up to find those chubby cheeks waxen and afraid!
But what was it afraid of?
The utter darkness that encompassed it the night of its birth?
Or of the evil Apogee, who fettered it away from Mother Earth?
Hither I squinted at the square chunks of colours.
Febrile light from the young moon with valour
Crawled through the fissures in their incomplete design,
Weaving fractured shadows all over the wall behind.
But where was the child?
Those grabby little palms busy with building:
Breaking and raising, and breaking again,
Fabricating something new.
My heart thumped hard; eyes darted around the dusky room, in vain.
What if she was lost, lost alone in the woods!
What if she was on her knees!
Tiny soles bloody, fallen on the swathes of algid dew.
Those silent tears like dripping pearls, spoke of pain withstood.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, hours gone by-
She ne'er came back.
I waited and waited 'til I couldn't anymore.
Those meek building blocks, now massive boulders
Such wicked masonry of a grey sepulture!
"But who died?" cried out some nocturnal creature.
Who indeed, for there was no child, no toy
Only a whitewashed ceiling with square cut slabs of ply.
A dream, or a trance, mind's ploy.
Stripped face contrite in rigor,
The posh quilt doing nothing to alter the effect.
Gnarled vines of a burden decades-old
Swung to and fro in hankering vigour.
Clammy breath of an ailing night, harsh in strangled quiet,
Wafted along the rue of loss down faraway hills.
An army of fervid thoughts at war with my stale body's chills.
One marched upfront amongst the scampering lot
Though fuzzy and air borne:
What of this existence, the swell and dip of a breast forlorn?
Of hunger and thirst, and lump of desires,
Once cherished, affluent,
Lay wizened in a deserted ink pot.
The midget parted on her infantine steps
Readily, or impelled,
Left me, breathing and labouring, to pick up the pieces.
Those patterns on the roof moulded into viscid attire,
No, not a plaything; something pulsating beneath like a monad.
My vision grew heavy yet fixated in wonder
As it proliferated a thousand times a nanosecond,
As vital as life itself.
My lips trembled in hardship to split up in a maniac tilt.
The crypt of thunderheads, if not the mares' tails,
The raucous waves of Atlantic, if not Adriatic's gentle lilt-
She would build up, I knew then, and assemble the fragments out of furore.
She would rise again, rise from the molecules of madness.
She would denude of her skin, slough off all those blood and gore.
YOU ARE READING
The Sporadics: A Collection Of Poetries
PoetryTHE S P O R A D I C S There are pitter-patters in the raindrops There are lub-dubs in a heartbeat There are dum-da-dum-da-dums in a music. They say, every single thing in this universe is connected by one phantasmal string which neither has a begin...
