By Sudeshna Dutta
As fluid of pure incandescent gold falls on my pallid countenance, like dew drops on the hushed wide blue of the seas,
with obsidian black ink and a simple piece of paper,
for my heavy heart aches for solace and a one true friend,
at the end of my tether, reaching out to my father's feathered old pen,
in a desperate attempt to liberate myself of the ironclad chains of piercing desolation,
rid my throat of the knot of dread that refuses to ever go,
in a desperate attempt to save my lonely soul from devouring itself,
I begin to release my thoughts held captive, time and time again.
I lament the loss of the girl who once was,
and the remnants of my past in which I continue to sulk, floating on the meandering river of time long gone,
but worry not, I am at last ready to face melancholy in the eye,
I give thought to my triumphs and mistakes alike,
and amidst it all, I write and I write…
As I clutch the corners of my half torn dress in trepidation,
as they label me the brunt of the torrents of mayhem,
then comes their sharp disapproval and venomous screech,
a fear rises in my chest, will I ever be as good as they want me to be?
or will my head always come in the way of me chasing my destiny,
wiping my cheeks of the incandescent gold that always fell,
picking that same old paper and that same old pen,
I write and I write…
As they cast me out and shut their doors,
as they move past me, albeit only yesterday, we were one and whole,
I find myself at the same crossroads of no home to return to,
and here comes down, the rueful rain,
and I hold the same old ink and paper in my frail fingers again,
I write and I write…
As I sit lulled staring at the gloomy sky,
and I ponder where the sun to my forlorn moon went,
I can only hope we will clasp hands once again,
tired of the excruciating pain of the endless wait,
wiping my pearls, I decide to hold on for a little while more,
and I turn to my only close friends, who never abandon me, my only cure,
I write and I write…
Suddenly at twilight I feel my stomach turn,
my pulsating blood aching to be free from the suffocating walls of my weary skin,
as if a colossal tide of impending peril had risen and was about to test everything I hold dear,
thrown into a state of trance, of blackness, and of insanity,
but even at that fateful moment,
the ink and white come to my rescue,
I do not know how such a simple pen and a simpler paper,
always mends the scathing wounds of my wailing heart,
they fight together as one with the languishing clutch of doom,
and suddenly, I'm brought back to life anew,
and I rise,
I let the concomitant crystals from my eye fall on the wrinkled white,
and with that same old ink,
I write and I write and I write…