Friday, April 29, 2016

The Crumbling Mosaic

Glassy eyes of hers look beyond
the glass of the pane into
the world of snow-
Waiting for the first star
Waiting for the moonglow
Simple pleasures rediscovered
to be rejoiced tomorrow.
Her hands grasping her favourite red quilt
trying to fight the falling snow.
The rapidly numbing mind seeking
the meaning of red and that of white,
the feeling of hot and that of cold.
The red of her blood
Quickly fading out
from her grey’s pantone.
The white of the shroud of
her soon-to-be corpse
is an end no longer as stark.
Of her person a few memories remain.
She wonders how much would stay on

Whatever there be of progress in life comes not through adaptation but through daring, through obeying the blind urge. - Henry Miller