Saturday, 2 October 2021

Memory, that foggy glass

 It's like one of those things, 

life, 

that you put in water, 

and then they change colour,

Remember those pretty little gelly beads,

we used to play with as kids. 

Little white beads, 

left in a bowl of water,

swelling up 

as if, 

with hopes and dreams, 

and expectations, 

and desire,

of varied hues and shades, 

the more you soak in, 

the more you grow, 

and when you'd look 

at light passing through them,

from across the glass, 

you'd see,

a variegated riot of colours, 

broad careless strokes

and prosaic mosaic patterns,

of recrystalized disappointments,

and shame and fear and guilt,

all simmering at a 185,

if you know what that is, 

fluid, like regret,

defined a moment, 

losing itself another, 

like shades of if I could,

and could have,

and should and shouldn't have, 

suspended in a jelly,

with almost life like properties! 

Like a rainbow 

torn away from the sky,

and recklessly thrown 

into a bowl of water, 

and you'd just watch,

look at the changing colours,

watch them like a story,

unfolding,

by itself,

as if you have no role to play, 

just watch it, 

from across the glass,

and across the water, 

convinced, 

it's something best left there,

to happen and to be,

and to be watched

from across 

the foggy, misty, poetic lens of memory! 

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