A Sceptic Eye

Consciousness,

Shattered to pieces,

never can come,

Together enough,

To love you once again,

Like before.

It rains,

like yesterday,

But the drops aren’t transparent anymore.

To you I’d written,

An Ode,

In mismatch poetry,

Stashed now between the bills,

Of two forgotten tea cups,

In a cheap restaurant,

Somewhere,

Someplace.

Confused,

In puddles of unaddressed drizzles,

I look up to the hills hidden in the fog,

All smug and happy,

And let my sun dry them away.

The clock races now,

To a fitting end in infinity.

I decide to spend my time well,

Designing a funeral for all the words knocking at my door.

Two heartbeats away,

A blind sweeper,

scoops our tea bills,
My poetry,
Our past,

and perhaps my life,

Into a new beginning,

Of an end.

-Palash

August’2013, Lumding.

The Sound of Jimi Hendrix

 Inadequate.

Yes, that’s how one feels. A tearing blues guitar, twaings and twoings, digging inside your emotions. There is a tad roughness to it, an unpolished beauty, everlasting . One begins to wish the lyrics never begin, for the Guitar speaks and screams to such volumes that no mortal has ever been able to put into words. And perhaps never will be.

The Sound of Jimi Hendrix.

He was a mere 27 when he reached for the stars and more. And we remain the inadequate mortals. To comprehend even a piece of his creation, perhaps would take many such infinite lifetimes. 

I could never make out his accent or his lyrics the first time. I let the missed words remain misunderstood. The notes however did not miss me. Drawn into a rising wave, helpless and out of control, I let him take over. How high, or How Low I stooped, I did not notice. It was just a searing emotion that had let go from the Blues Guitar!

Yes Baby!

-Palash

August’13, Lumding