Handwritten

Circle

I pick up a pencil and mildly trace a circle.
The faint smudge grows darker with
Each passing second.
I stand with my feet on the edge of it,
And my ears catch an army of sounds making their way towards me.

A rumble of warm laughter echoes as I try in vain,
To push through that ever hardening boundary.

A soft whimper and an ear-splitting scream,
Where I sit helpless on the brink,
Wishing I was deaf.

And then I hear it. My name. Or is it?
At first a shout and then slowly fading
Into a whisper.
And I wonder why anyone would call me
By someone else's name.

Inside this circumference, time has meaning.
And out where I lay, I lay in void.

A dread starts creeping within me as
All the sounds have now grown distant,
As a light that gets lost on its way to earth.
I wonder have I atlast gone deaf.

But the heavy storm in my chest denies
Me the comfort of a lie.
And now I wait patiently for the storm to die,
Wondering when marks of pencil, which I tried so hard to erase
Grew into tall iron walls.

All the while as I lay on the rim
waiting for sleep to come,
Too late I realize that
all I needed was to draw a door.

And when my fingers give it a try,
A straight line neatly runs
To only curl up into a circle again.