Memoirs

'Life is but a collection of memories, grouped effectively before death.'

- 

A silly child, who mocked and rejected

the meaningless musings of a world

that ebbed into enduring autumns and

dark winters, came to sit beside me.

With his hands ridden in mud, but without

the roughness that life would grant it

with, he asks me to cherish the purity

of his words and the radiance of his smile.

Replacing the child is a lad whose shine

continue to whisper what the child shouted,

He hid emotions somewhere inside his eyes

which seemed to deepen into an oblivion,

Where fragile thoughts were shattered

by awkward words. With a pace that guides

his motives, he wastes no time to point

my senses onto his frank smiles and a

relentless heart.

A person who looks more like me could

be seen, experience (rather torments) of

living has smothered his eyes and haunted

his mind. His hands seem weary, legs tired

and through the long walk, his head stuffed

up by useless ideas, inflates like a balloon.

A prick made by memories finds him

bursting and swaying meaninglessly.

I see my own reflection beside,

I see him write the words with earnestness

and desire, though his legs grew stiff

and immobile, his pen masters all unfathomable

heights. He counts the faces he sees,

He asks them of their well being,

He forgets all goodbyes and struggle

onward for the rest of his life.

 I see a future (distant but sure), maybe

upon the corners of my side, where I remove

my temporary hide, and make a perpetual ride,

I see myself galloping forward in time, and

taking siestas with infinities wrapped up in

each passing moment, perhaps then I shall

write again, not for the world to see but

for me to remember!

Notes
Inspired by the Malayalam poem 'Anyan' written by sir O.N.V.Kurup, this was written at Ernakulam (where I spent the better parts of my childhood) on 26/12/2013.