The Trail

The trail lives.

The trail is ageless.

But does it count, I don’t know.

The breezes of my words,

The storms of my blues,

The seasons of my actions.

Let there be no more of counting,

Let the trail of ink be pure,

Let me redeem myself.

Like the kid, impervious to pain,

Until a caring eye sees him fall.

Like the kid, feigning sleep,

eluding the watchful gaze.

Oblivious to attention,

seeking every bit of it.

Like the mighty oak, upright and proud,

only to kiss the ground after the storm,

smiling at the still swaying grass, elegant and meek.

Always fearing the inner demons,

not apparently, obviously.

Humouring, lacking traces of humour,

playing both the prey and the feeder.

Foot steps on the fringes of shadows,

coming in and out, with a cat’s dexterity.

Covering under the bed,

conveniently forgetting the seat at the table top.

Where it could have burned, lighting the room, dying slowly.

Let there be no more lies,

for there is nothing as such.

Only scenarios.

Dictated by time and place

and the other few hundreds of them,

scrutinized by unilateral hoaxed logic.

Let the sight be not masked,

with holy fumes of rituals and regimes.

Let the waters be calm,

baring itself naked, reflecting a part of you.

Let me redeem myself.

My trails ends here, ours begin.