Soul of solitude
I know where and why
I have been sealed off.
Am living like a monk.
But to pacify my hunger,
I eat, drink to exist.
I have to live and fulfill my karmic duties.
The one and only cause our existence.
I count the days slip into weeks, months and years.
I find a way to escape from this monastic life.
I feel dejected and lonely.
I am far away from my home land.
My dear ones wait and wait for my home coming.
Am I a lost warrior who lost everything at war front?
I depart everything dear to my being.
Parting one’s own nomadic being.
Knowingly, whether I win or vanish.
It is dreadfully painful.
The other end of my conscience
Questions and mocks at me.
Why I selected this hell hole?
Am I pliable to satisfy my heroism or macho?
I don’t know. I really don’t know…oh God.
How one can answer his own queries..?
Is it the ego of manliness which disavow,
to accept the voice of inner being.
Am I greedy to be live as a looser?
Never, my mystique mind, I can assure this.
Yep it is not me who orchestrated my life.
Somebody design it from afar.
He tunes and plays my fiddle, my one and only existence.
He stops when he wishes or tired …
It is you my eternal spirit,
Who controls me to disarm the whole run.
I really was controlled by my arrogance.
Am I the one and only monarch of my life?
My life is weaved with faults, folly and frolic.
I wonder and wither, is it me who chosen this lonesome range?
Every morning I meet mourners
Who weeps without shedding a
Drop of tears on their pale face.
The quiet scene is soul stirring.
Being stagnant by time
Bystanders yawn, and roam around
With a cold dry frustrated look.
It is a delirious state …
They remind me the desert
Which wait for the
Rain to sooth its barren heart.
Waiting for the last countable
Days and nights of one’s dear one
Is outstrip with shadows just behind.
Everywhere I see the pang
And panic of death.
People call me doctor…..
Yep I am a doctor who visit each
And every bed of my cancer ward.
With false smile I pat them and giving
Them assurances of life,
Knowingly that the very next
Morning I may not see those wounded souls
Witness the pandemonium.
Death is, only the panacea which
I can wish those bereaved beings.
Like a demented man I forget their faces.
Because I am sure of the other
End of my dreadful coming days.
Am withering with pain which no
One can’t be called for.
The decaying days are ahead of me
Where I can visualize my dear bystander
Who weeps for me in the
Cancer ward near to my death chamber