Poetry: Illusion
I was angry teenager. And I spewed my anger on the pages of my daily journal. But I was not always angry I also blazed with love. Sometimes I was in equanimity. My journal entries are the foundations of my many stories and poems. Unfortunately I burned by diary years ago when I was apprehended by anger.
This is one of my earliest epigrams, but it has gone under uncountable modifications that I do not remember what were the original lines. All I remember is I had worked on the idea about Maya, the Hindu word for illusion. Or perhaps she was called Maya. I do not remember, it happened long-long time ago.
I toss. I turn
And I sag
With the clout you have over me,
Perforation getting bigger
Why I live, when living is feeble
In this world glutted with people!
Cavernous past. Hollow future
And murky present engulfs my being
Cut off, I'm
Unconscious, I cry
Setting sun and the dark night
Kindle melancholia and dejection
I toss. I turn
All through the nights
demented am I?
It's your love, I know
Plunged into the depth
Drowning,
Beating hands restlessly towards the shore.
You are there faceless
I spot your silhouette
I’m seething here
An abyss between us
The crescent moon,
Night glittering with stars and fireflies,
Your reality outgrowing
Suddenly,
Eddy erupts
In the veins of my life
And I remember
You were named Maya
Mother of all illusions
You keep all the beings
Apprehended in the world of delusion
You are gone
You do not exist
Neither do I