The Glasshouse

It feels like there's this curse, 

and everytime I try to build 

something beautiful, 

it comes crumbling down. 

Do you know the feeling? 

Ever seen a rainbow

come crashing down? 

And fall flat on the ground, 

like a deflated balloon. 

Shattered beams of coloured light, 

falling down from the sky, 

like shattered glass,

coloured glass, 

myraid colours crashing down, 

all at once, 

the Requiem playing in the background, 

in D minor, 

sad as hell! 

Like in a dream, 

only it's not a dream. 

Like the rainbow was a stained glass window, 

held up in the sky, 

opening into the out and beyond! 

And suddenly somebody pulled back the out and beyond, 

from above your head, 

and the window came crashing down!? 

Sometimes I feel the loss, 

like the loss of a dear one, 

the sharp pangs of pain

it arouses in the deep inside, 

as if the deep inside is some sort of a  mirror reflection, 

of the out and beyond, 

that was pulled away suddenly! 

Remember? 

In the last verse? 

So that all subsequent verses, 

are left writhing in pain on the inside. 

Like the inside is only the outside turned inside out! 

Preposterous, right? 

Yet, everytime I build 

one of these beautiful glass houses, 

painted glass, 

myriad colours, 

glistening splendid, 

some part of the sky 

comes crashing down, 

and the house falls on its own head, 

killing all the inhabitants in their sleep! 

Every single time, 

leaving a part of me

mourning the loss, 

like the death of a part of me!

And it's not a passing thought, 

that would trouble you 

now and then again, 

it's more of an intuition, 

this curse, 

the sort of thing you know

you can't possibly escape, 

not in this lifetime, 

and you know it with a certain certainity. 

There's something about these glass houses,

or perhaps it's about where I build them;

troubled waters, 

rivers of smoke, 

on the margins of the acceptable,

and the borderline of what's sane! 

Perhaps always too far along on the faultlines of human accomodation. 

These cursed dreams of mine! 

Dreams of freedom, 

dreams of love! 

And the most blasphemous of them all, 

the dream of being yourself! 

Dreams too audacious, 

even for the Earth to carry it seems, 

dreams that take up too much space, 

under the sky! 

Fragile Glass-houses floating astray

like clouds, 

on the narrow horizon of Being.

March the 15th, 2024