A Walk Alone

Carrying the heaviness he cannot lay down,
He heaves a sign, bearing a frown,
Stifling his boiling frustration within,
He gasps out, struggling to breathe in,

He sets out, leaving all behind,
Upon a walk outside, a journey within,
Hoping to escape from his own self,
But carrying still, the carrier of burden,

Unaware of his route, on he walks,
Wishing to hear his soul's talk,
Walking faster still, he turns back,
Hoping he's ahead of his worries and thoughts,

Further, he walks, now slower,
For his breathing's calmed and his pressure's lower,
He proceeds ahead, on the side of the unknown road,
That time's traversed a million times,

Into the night, he moves on,
Wishing for the streetlights to stay on,
A jolt of fear breathes life back into his chest,
And he sees he should return, for his own best,

He quickens his pace, feeling lighter,
Away from the race, his face a little brighter,
He smiles to himself, taking a familiar turn,
That looked so new, in the absence of the sun,

He sees now, as he sees his home from afar,
That his life isn't his self, nor are his burdens and fears,
That they're just a fabric wrapped around him when he's cold,
Staying only as tight as he wills,

He turns now, to face his beautiful home,
Refreshed, nay, enlightened, with a wordless wisdom,
Ready to look his problems in the eye,
And conquer them, with newfound zeal.

The Clock

Tick away, my dear friend,
As I stare at your face with no end,
In impatient anticipation of that waited hour,
Or perhaps the arrival of untellable terror,

You're the only friend when I'm loneliest,
My sole companion on sleepless nights,
Listening to my woes so patient,
Your ticks pounding like a a caring heart,

You hold me forever with your arms long,
Feeding me with the power to become strong,
Healing my wounds like I'd never thought,
Leaving behind even a scar not,

If only I could touch your face beyond the glass,
And your hands could reach out of the pin at last,
I'd embrace you 'til my arms hurt,
And hold you there, 'til we're pulled apart.

A Song of Life

Lost in the tiny world they dwell in,
They live, breathing in what the air lends,
Consuming the fruits their trees yield,
And fending from work their fields need,

Oh they seek their joy in the sun that shines,
And in the dark when the moon hides or wanes,
Begetting children their bodies bear,
And providing for them for they know they must,

Smiling in the delight they bring to others,
A gift for a wife and a toy for a child,
Beings whose true form they know not,
And yet, count, in vain, as their own,

Oh what a life, this pathetic life,
Racing ahead as age rises,
It slows down when they wish to leave,
Stretching old age so the horizon's unseen,

Blinded by the misery of their present,
They await their end, passing day and night,
And when peace might come some quiet day,
Their breath leaves, so sudden, so quick,

Oh what was the purpose of this strange existence?
A question that shines brighter than the liver,
When asked, it flows through the woods, o'er the fields,
And the answer? It's a lifeless, cold corpse they left behind.

On a Dark, Lonely Road

I walked, slow, on a dark, solitary road,
On a cold night, sans trace of a soul,
A silence filled my within and without,
And my throat too tight to hum a tune,
My footsteps tearing into the eerie quiet,
My heart beating faster with each shift,
From eerie quiet to echoing tread,

The urge to stop beaten by an urge to flee,
My pace quickened before I could will it,
And I walked ahead 'cross that long street,
To find some quiet, a calming one,

Relieved I resumed a slower pace,
Drinking in each still thing around,
Until I saw, within a dark car,
A sight I would never forget,

'Twas a woman, an agless one,
Of profoud beauty and a charming smile,
She saw not me, nor anything else,
Just stared into the blank, with a knowing gaze,

I could not help, but stare at her,
Though it was an unsettling sight to behold,
For her face spoke of something eerie and strange,
An unearthly sight, an unsettling scene,

Her face shone bright sans a source of light,
Perhaps it had a lustre of its own?
A shine of a kind that erased all age,
That shone like the moon sans colour or shade,

I knew it was something that wasn't meant to be,
A strangeness that could mean no good,
And yet I stared as I kept walking,
Moving faster ahead though my legs'd started aching,

I painted her face in the canvas of my head,
Looking without a blink, despite my dread,
She turned around towards my side,
And I took to my heels, without turning behind,

I've walked that road countless times now,
Each time wondering who it was, I'd seen,
I've seen not her, nor any car there,
But her face, it still lives in my head.

See Not My Frame

See not my frame, weak as it may seem,
It speaks not of what lies within,
See not my name, it's simple and short,
Sans the grandeur it christens,
Judge not my stride, queer and funny,
It cloaks the wisdom it carries 'pon it,
Hear me talk, of that which I know,
And then you shall see genius glow.

[With]In the Confines of Solitude

How beautiful a passtime could it be,
To weave words from thoughts within me?
When my companion in solitude,
Is the pen dancing with my digits?

When thoughts that play in the screen of my head,
Spring to life, ceasing to be dead,
Spitting such delicate strokes in the canvas of my book,
That stir souls that grant them a look?

Fools are they who laugh at the alone,
For they know not the sound of the mind's tune,
It collects colours from sights and songs and words,
Painting such works that bring awe and tears,

They sleep, they sing, they read when lonely,
Fleeing from thoughts that fill their minds wholly,
Letting not the pressure within subside,
Opening not, the doors of their heads,

Yes, appreciating art is as sweet as it sounds,
It fills one with pleasure unbound,
But many know not the feel of art,
Flowing out their arms, into another's heart.

Epilogue:

Lock'd you are, they say, with your thoughts,
But they see not the power that's been unlocked,
The chance to turn and look within,
To listen to the beats of one's own heart,

To watch the movement of the stuff of the mind,
To dance within, to these tunes of a kind,
To listen to the music that brews inside,
And to record the bubbles that escape your spirit.

From Poetry to Prose

The lines of poetry trickle down slower,
As the force of their flow lowers,
Condensing into thick, long lines,
While commas freeze into full stops,

Grammar hardens, turning rigid,
While the heart that melted now turns frigid,
Its skin now thicker, smirks cold without reason,
Analysis takes over, while emotion breaks at this treason,

Language raises its hefty eyebrows,
And slowly smiles at the mighty prose,
For it isn't often the case,
That surrender stops the flow of words,

The valve of the heart-tap closes full,
While the pen takes a break and rests still,
And then it dawn upon the holder of the quill,
That words now flow faster still,

That in poetry, it's emotions that flow,
While in prose, the rational glows,
Beating the speed of heart-spun words,
It dances to the tune of logic and sense,

Prose then smiles, glorious and proud,
Its wrds ringing, clear and loud,
Sans the dreary dreams of poems,
It recites its purpose, brief and to the point.

This work was inspired by a poem that came in the Bengali film, Baishe Srabon (poem link)