A budding writer's collection

The Travelling Past

Just a regular day,

Steaming-hot tea and golden-brown dosas,

Oily fingers and a mouth in motion,
And then,

That breath you can't get rid of;

That phantom feeling that rips you from within.

Just another night,

Introspection, contemplation, and sporadic realizations

The little lights illuminating the purple giant,

A canvas hungry for ideas;

And then,

That scar on the cheek,

Constant noises, smirks, and demeaning words,

Of hands that met the skin,

Branding it with hatred and fury

Of remarks and retorts and the crescendo,

Of a time gone but leaving words etched within.

Just an afternoon,

Lazy sips of water and spoons of rice

The news on the TV,

A cacophony that you hardly care for,
But for him,

To see how far the bandwagon of bigotry reaches within,

How little the 'too much' feels,

But now you just focus on the food,

Mouth in motion, mind asleep.

The travelling past walks in tandem,

Invisible footprints and silent steps

It leeches off the morsels of happiness,

It cruelly snatches the warm love within.

Just a shell trying to feel unadulterated feelings,

But the strings tighten at the cuffs,

The travelling past always has the say.