You cannot digest what speaks the mirror,
and feverishly search to mend the damage.
You blame it for it reflects your errors,
and portrays not your new made-up image.
So you snap, click and edit your photo-
colours to present a different picture.
Camouflaged with layers from head to toe,
hiding the soul but flashing the texture.
You caption this frame to further enhance,
peppered with a sweet voice to go along.
In hope to upraise the societal stance
but unaware where you truly belong.
But soon this drama and dice go backstage-
you call the mirror for a pure image.
I would want to be a pink butterfly
basking in the yellow morning sunshine.
I would flap my colourful wings to fly,
and hop from flower to flower to dine.
Or rather I live as a honey bee,
and make the golden liquid of pleasure?
I will disguise it from those eyes greedy,
and shall use my sting to guard the treasure.
But a honey bee buzzes all the while-
for people like us who steal her nectar.
And the poor butterfly is so docile
that it lives to please us like an actor.
If ever fate gives me a choice of role-
I would not know on which path I would roll.
How has this clock with two swords
wrapped us around its fingers.
The tick tocks and chiming chords
have cast a spell that lingers.
We hasten as strike the wands
and drift nowhere from somewhere.
What magic lies far beyond
that this hour seems so unfair?
But time heeds to no worries-
Is there a need to hurry?
A jug of whiskey with spice
for the two mischievous old.
Bouts of fire on cubes of ice-
the hazy stories retold.
Sweeter rumbled the mumbles,
and louder the glasses clinked.
Woozily tales just tumbled
as the oldies laughed and blinked.
Giddier turned every verse
till the sun donned new colours.
They tell the way they have seen
the life passing through their doors.
And of places they have been
by wheels, rails or mighty oars.
But let me have my own tale
for my eyes seek their own choice.
Borrowed stories feel so pale
for these ears who heed no voice.
Let my senses flow and churn
as the pot of desire burns.
I often lament over things not said
even when many thoughts have reached my tongue.
Some had the lustre but courage unfed,
and some with a fine melody unsung.
Sometimes few words can bring a little smile.
At times their echoes stir up a yearning.
Often they utter for a sweet long while,
and hope to express a deeper meaning..
But my vocals sought no flattering tune
yet struck a few chords though silently played.
And the lyrics were haphazardly strewn,
but found those ears with a spiritual aid.
I lacked skill and fancy for eloquence.
All I could offer was my long presence.
Now closed are the outside doors
as this fear fearlessly roams.
The skies display shades of rose
but we are bound in our homes.
Hand of fate has dealt new cards
with colours you to select.
Ask yourself what you regard,
and look within and reflect.
Time has paused- now pace you set.
Your soul is your sole asset.
A musk rose bloomed on my sill
with white petals peeping in.
The quiet rooms amour filled
as its fragrance drifted in.
It gossiped with coffee beans
and spiced up a blended scent.
Rolled into my fuzzy dreams,
churned out a rosy essence.
Deep ingrained sweet and sour are
seeds of the waking-flower.
Worldly wisdom the cart loads
to reach somewhere that seems wise.
The wheel eyes the random road,
and the axle squeaks and shies.
The spokes squeak with mighty strain-
align to juggle this weight.
Lose no bearings bogey-train,
and oil the armour of fate.
Wobbly ride across the span-
along rolls the journeyman.
Here she lies in woolly laze
with the embroidery spread.
Here we soar in God’s embrace-
hope for wings with magic threads.
And her spell warmth emanates
in the winter nights of blur.
Royal aura nobly states
when honoured to walk on her.
But for joy and slumber deep-
what troubles under not sweep.