Isn't it utterly unjustified
That I don't have control
Over the steering wheel
Of the bloody vehicle of Time?
It doesn't make any sense,
Especially when I myself
Am sitting on the driver's place.
If I were truly driving
Through my life's highway,
I would've been rash and reckless
While passing through
My twenties' "milestones" :
The degrees, the confusions,
The emptiness, the uncertainties....
I would've fast forwarded
The entire decade.
And, as soon as I would see
The road sign of the beginning
Of my thirties' metropolis,
I'd finally slow down
With a sigh of relief.
After driving leisurely there for hours
With the rythm of mild breezes,
On the avenue full of citylights...
I'd park the car under a blossoming
Cherry blossom tree on a quiet ally way
And wait for you for one more year,
So we could buy a penthouse together.
But, for now, I can neither drive
This heck of a car,
Nor I can afford to be reckless.
Isn't this unchangeable torturous
Pace of Time, a sophisticated trap?
And, isn't it more meaningless
Than my complaints of life?
YOU ARE READING
Remainders
PoetryA collection of poetry about the leftovers of human feelings. _____________________________________________ ** No part of this book should be copied or published anywhere else.** © Ipsita Mitra Pupu _____________________________________________ ✷All...
