What’s distilled?

On the wall above my mother’s bed

in my grandfather’s veins

embedded within the rebellions

our hearts process

every single night

sprawled under our blankets

inscriptions that make sense

only to those willing to look

you may even call them ‘runes’

but they are often written backwards

jumbled beyond repair or recognition

and we live our lives

work our jobs

read Shakespeare, Milton, Premchand

critique stylized finger-foods

swallow one minute video capsules

holding life’s most perfunctory mysteries

my point is- we go on

on and on

nobody really cares

no one really bothers

to decipher

what went wrong

with our unbridled joys

our gut wrenching miseries

the perfection of our childhood personas

is now buried

somewhere in my mind

and try as I might

I shall never know

the unadulterated passions

that fester in lovesick hearts

what’s left is

what’s distilled

every night when i cry myself to sleep.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s