Oh this world is a shaky build,
Yielding at a little touch, even a finger's wield,
A ghost story with me at the front,
Stable and quiet at the outset,
But collapsing when I look back,
Into the foundation of this shack,
Its established customs built,
Over a floor of silt,
with cotton bricks that show a rigid face,
Held loosely upon a ripply base,
Oh my soul boils in unrest,
Unable to accept this jest,
While the masses follow it like flocks,
And I cannot but question its blocks,
I seek to strip it all down,
Not merely its robes and gown,
I shall peel its skin, its flesh,
And untie the knots of its complex mesh,
Down to the skeleton of its spirit,
'Til nothing remains but cold, white dust,
Talks of love, of honour, of power,
Of language, of art, of the thirst to discover,
Of joy, of pain, of wisom, jokes and puns,
Where do these lie with white, dead skeletons?
Or is it perhaps that formless soul,
That moves these bodies which drop when it's gone?
A spirit that's written of, sung upon,
But not plotted on paper by the science of man,
Is all this a lie, this life, this whine,
Perhaps an illusion upon the canvas of time?
But of what use is beauty that isn't beheld,
An inert existence that shall never be held?
Why do these insentient things endure,
Evading death and retaining their allure?
Oh of what use are pretty things,
Without an eye to see them?
Or do they live and breathe too, like us,
But an air that we can't witness?
Or is this life pointless and alone,
Stuck in a well 'til it withers to bone?
Am I the only creature that lives and sees?
Staring into eyes that move and limbs that dance,
Talking to lifeless beings that respond to my call,
Which smile back until one day they fall?
Is it just an emotion that drives me mad?
Giving me thoughts when I'm happy or sad?
Formless feelings that drive me fast and slow?
But don't feelings change too when a hormone is low?
Do these fluids dictate thought and senses,
Or do they merely come when one feels?
Oh what am I without this machine of a body?
An objective pair of eyes,
That sees this world, cold?
Or am I a subject that seeks not a friend?
Where is sacrifice in this speck of a life?
Or is it foolish to judge a thing by its size?
When such thought consumes, drowns the mind that thinks,
No matter what the strength, nor the might,
It is crushed and erased, each night by sleep,
And for all by death,
Leaving behind dead words,
That shall forever haunt the living.
Yielding at a little touch, even a finger's wield,
A ghost story with me at the front,
Stable and quiet at the outset,
But collapsing when I look back,
Into the foundation of this shack,
Its established customs built,
Over a floor of silt,
with cotton bricks that show a rigid face,
Held loosely upon a ripply base,
Oh my soul boils in unrest,
Unable to accept this jest,
While the masses follow it like flocks,
And I cannot but question its blocks,
I seek to strip it all down,
Not merely its robes and gown,
I shall peel its skin, its flesh,
And untie the knots of its complex mesh,
Down to the skeleton of its spirit,
'Til nothing remains but cold, white dust,
Talks of love, of honour, of power,
Of language, of art, of the thirst to discover,
Of joy, of pain, of wisom, jokes and puns,
Where do these lie with white, dead skeletons?
Or is it perhaps that formless soul,
That moves these bodies which drop when it's gone?
A spirit that's written of, sung upon,
But not plotted on paper by the science of man,
Is all this a lie, this life, this whine,
Perhaps an illusion upon the canvas of time?
But of what use is beauty that isn't beheld,
An inert existence that shall never be held?
Why do these insentient things endure,
Evading death and retaining their allure?
Oh of what use are pretty things,
Without an eye to see them?
Or do they live and breathe too, like us,
But an air that we can't witness?
Or is this life pointless and alone,
Stuck in a well 'til it withers to bone?
Am I the only creature that lives and sees?
Staring into eyes that move and limbs that dance,
Talking to lifeless beings that respond to my call,
Which smile back until one day they fall?
Is it just an emotion that drives me mad?
Giving me thoughts when I'm happy or sad?
Formless feelings that drive me fast and slow?
But don't feelings change too when a hormone is low?
Do these fluids dictate thought and senses,
Or do they merely come when one feels?
Oh what am I without this machine of a body?
An objective pair of eyes,
That sees this world, cold?
Or am I a subject that seeks not a friend?
Where is sacrifice in this speck of a life?
Or is it foolish to judge a thing by its size?
When such thought consumes, drowns the mind that thinks,
No matter what the strength, nor the might,
It is crushed and erased, each night by sleep,
And for all by death,
Leaving behind dead words,
That shall forever haunt the living.
Written on 7th February, 2017. Major edits made on 17th February, 2017 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay
