Two Poems titled “Low Tide”

Activity Fun Sky Kite Ocean Flying Beach
Activity Fun Sky Kite Ocean Flying Beach

Low Tide

The one that got away, just like an eloped kite
Poses a question, asks a riddle, that has no answer.
You extrapolate from memory
Drawing a line from where she left,
To the present. Something surreal
Takes over you, an inverse of deja-vu
Climbing inside your feeble heart,
As you learn that the cartography of fate
Is an impossible science,
And still, you make a crude design,
A figment at best, embellish it with décor,
Until that thought, like the incoming low tide,
Encroaches, transforming you,
To your own, devil’s advocate.

Low Tide

We looked out to see strangers
Laid out like a festive smorgasbord,
So many diverse skin types,
Strangers, making this a hive
Of activity. That night, we were counting
The stars on the jet black sky,
Niches of constellations
Summoning sight. I was just
As inconspicuous as every face in
That crowded street, or in the constellated sky,
Learning a crucial lesson in life,
That camouflage, is just about everything
You neglect to encounter,
On the bathroom mirror.

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Metamorphosis

Fog

Time-skewed, diseased of sloth
I stand in that vacuum, sucked
Into it, like a Hoover vacuum cleaner,
Learning that time, just passes you by
And you’re like the tree whose
Braches rattle, leaves rustle, resisting abscission.
While my hair, like bamboo culms
Waving in the wind, not knowing
That every subtle movement
Is a choreographed edition of physics.
I’m just a fool at times, letting
The winds of change, comb me
To a newer person, while I look
At my top soil, breezing away, like a saree’s fall,
Wondering what enigmatic fore-creation
I am now. Time, is just a watershed,
Sometimes, it place no importance
On history, just that panic-stricken
Wave of activities, that you do
To belong, when all you are, is just a sculpture,
Formed from Aeolian forces. Just like
The arches in the badlands,
I reach out not knowing where
It will take me. I’m my own Unidentified Flying Object,
A UFO made of paper, weathering away,
Learning that getting lost is nature’s intervention.
My paper-thin ego, blots in ink, making little designs,
That become an antecedent plot
Folded by origami, to a lattice,
Sometimes too abstract, even for you.
Existence is just a complex function
Of erosive forces. Metamorphic
Is a life sentence, inside a prison cell,
Embanked by skin.