Through the threshold of childhood,
I limped towards the miracles of youth.
On the horizon, passive but firm, saw I
the eclipsing glimpses of worn out
roots.
The smoggy,
seizing of the facts,
the realities
of tales of falsehood, so cherished,
advance.

Scars don’t heal suddenly,
Scars are not out of hiding.
As yet.

I walk with my unsavory movements,
someone halts me, reminding
me of the ultimate festivals of atonement,
one has to pursue, sometimes for long,
to reach.
Swollen I stand, aghast,
joyously leaping youth,
looks forward to meeting
the incredulous motives.
Stories lie in silhouetted remembrances
circling faded roots.

The menacing miseries don’t heal suddenly.
The soliloquy of the silent is not out of hiding.
As yet.

Wipe out,
grapple with,
the crumbling traces of childhood,
the smokes of cynical traces,
youth is just an outpost.
Sensuous perceptions bemoan the arrival
of the images we wrongly believe are
left in the burial grounds,
barren for long.

The roots that are timidly talked of
by persons, renowned,
enshrine themselves in a vacuum of
crystallized infatuations.
Alive for so long.
undeterred, the fading roots hop around,
majestically, in a state of softened tranquility,
as if the wiliness in us,
on the verge of it’s
own arrival.

Wretched lingering of rootless
dilemmas contain me conceitedly,
force me to disown my
own sagacity.
Too ignominious indeed.