Jyothy Sreedhar


The stormy evening.

Restless runs trade their days.

Falcons hover rampaged-

Still hover above my roof.

Smiles forego a tornado.

I recall my wasted birth

when I cried last in a midst.

Never then did I

as a sympathied prey.

Am I happy?- ‘I know not’

and the tone is irascible.

The nonchalant turns destine my unspirited life

which never begins, decays and ends.

In a vertigo, I expand the darkness

-the half-sister of my dark inners.

Slowly twilight reveals its hybridity

of a torn veil and a hid spook.

And the dark gets erupted…

when I retrace my gone day a pantomime.

I know it was not mine, I didn’t own it ever,

and I was nothing more than being twiddled

by some god up above.

I pity that pen that wrote

“God is in his heaven (hopefully imagined),

and all is well with the world (foolishly dreamt).”

The absurd pages of psychology prove

that we dont have a mind of our own

that preambles some being called a ‘human’.

And I ask whether there is a heart

which can ever signal a red ‘love’?

Is there an eye which sees something

beyond the the rays of reflectivisms.

Is there something called ‘self’

that we own…really…?

I know not…

and the tone is irascible.

I hereby declare that the above ‘furnished’ details

by me (who is not me) are mere blunders.

I thank you for laughing at my search for self…