Soliloquy

Moving around clouds seemed easier, the penchant
For appraising one’s self-worth deemed unnecessary
After the umpteenth look at the sky. This day, hidden
So well by the remnants of my idle past, must belong
To the desk where unfiltered light falls in snatches
And John Coltrane hums his tunes in bits, only for
The night to herald its arrival with a fork in the eye.

No wonder this day felt akin to talking to strangers in
The rush of hot-blooded rancour. My pain – whether
All of it has remained in the cocoon it wishes for
Amid the tenderness it demands – shall have to wait
For another night for the song to be sung in all fairness
To its idea of justice. Bullets did not discriminate, unlike
Men, for whom battle became a sport and love a hobby.

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