The Ride by Vasvi Kejriwal


for Edgar Allan Poe


All that we see or seem,

is but a dream within a dream


I cut off my sleep with

the zagged scissors that my

aunt gave me in my last

life

today. And

I found myself walking

out on the street

with unruly wet hair and

a clematis in my palm to

catch a train that took me

back,

a day or two, before I

realised I

was a month away.


My sleep leaves

behind, in its wake,

a stickiness;

the ticket to my ride.

I sigh at an eye

through

a Fall, leaves behind

bark blah brick blur,

before I

realise it is mine.


Now


I find myself walking

through

days. Sometimes,

a wayfarer or two

strolls across a

fleeting crack of dawn or

shafts of dusk, from

light to night; sometimes,

a sunset or two

illumines a crooked

bend in thought, and

lamp posts burn

a morsel of noon.


Soon


I find myself touching

words. They hold so much

more

than air.

They are built, to be razed.

Straight, but then twisted.

Lodged in banks, to be

minted; value

that only devalues.

In my pocket, I find loose

change:

a city erected on leaf, some

hate tasting of saccharin,

jagged petals of a rose, a

clay-modelled sun, a thorn

of calico. Also,

pococurante, lies

a life, cast out of the

residue

the Hooghly left

behind.


I cut off my sleep with

the zagged scissors that my

aunt gave me in my last

life

today. And

my sleep left

behind, in its wake,

a sediment;

a dream within

a dream.

Life is the ticket;

I am the ride.


Read Vasvi's writings on her blog.Follow Mayur aka Copycat Design's art on Instagram.

 
 

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