Mine wilting breast, perched on a parched heart,
Hath time dressed light, or enamoured hope in rags,
And doth the song haunt thee tempest?
Or the melody mask, the stranger in grace?
Tis true, the call silent, deep, surface bold,
Shall mine fears brush, paint strokes on canvas life?
All chimes, a begging bowl of questions lit,
Tust tempts myths, to burn weary paths blind,
Is this quest, just a milestone carved?
Or just an affair, that cold comets craved to lust?
The answers shall burn incense, for darkness whole,
The questions shall immolate reason, for light sole,
Will this delirium parade, the soul transition on hold?
Will mine branches break, for new earth to birth?
Still hath no mercy pout across thin lips cold?
Raw, unclothed I sought, yet thine price ever was life,
I seek not more, just clothe mine soul lost,
Will not seek, lest your mercy beget, bemused fate in regret,
Shall not fear, yet thee seek the cross on the soul,
All mine hands clasped seek, is not thin air bent,
Nor rarefied clouds sent, but winds on wanton mist,
This anger though, never the coffin on parched earth,
These verses though, never your morrow’s pallor,
Answer me soon, thine tears shall be your clouds fury,
For tis’ time, my haunted truth, my hunted reason,
And verses only shall frame a tresspasser’s truths,
And yet time sleeps and thine call burn,
The woods stay, demure and deep, the road allure, dark and dusk,
Cobbled castaways in stone, Coiled tendrils bold,
Obscure paths, lone waters, naked lakes, swampy woods,
I know not, that I am not the wanderer who passed by,
For I whispered and you whispered back “Home”
‘To be or not – The Road Not Taken’
Written by Prakash Rangarajan.© Copyrights reserved.