Daddy Long Legs

The distance crept in,
Is purposive and pragmatic.
The odds escalated,
Are just an escape-
Keeping the often abused
'Long term' in focus.
Varied definitions,
Of the rationale of action,
May be collated-
As an argument against the air-borne.
But if flight, is such a dream-
Why not gratify and not choose social sanctity?
Bonds, aren't for the fickle.
Words of responsibility and duty,
Thrash and enmesh,
Into an unseen obscene.
Thoughts of you do pervade,
What you feel, believe and want-
For in the aqueous world,
The amphibian had loved you supreme.
Yet all the yearnings,
Remain obtuse,
To an aimless sense of direction.
Oxymorons, therefore,
Direct the arrow in motion,
As phone calls,
Get constricted to a seconds count,
And the number of words shared or uttered,
Be confined to a meticulous measure.
Defiance, may be a summary-
But expectations and validations,
Must have a validity too.
In no-one's favor,
Should the aimless float.
Selfish, you say?
Aye. That be true.
But a vision to the miles ahead-
Only has pitfalls of the many questions-
That the spindle-shaped invertebrate,
Must escape.
For the answers are few and bold-
And may not be palatable,
When evinced in the raw.

Titanic

The tormentor,

Stands and smiles.

Surreal reels frame the seconds-

As the clock ticks on-

The camera panning to show the expressionless faces.

The boat had rocked,

And freedom had come calling.

Temporarily- a sanity from the vanity-

Yet, was this the route?

The conflict thus lay,

In self-image and self-denial.

Worry lines become white wrinkles,

The frown- a permanent smile.

The throne lies vacant-

But was it to be adorned?

Introspection reveals a dead soul-

As the vacuous mind,

Stares at the road ahead.

Is this where life must be headed towards?

A pitch for green but no relief?

Numbers crunch,

As footsteps falter.

The road seems dubious-

As somewhere,

A voice calls out to refrain,

And not plunge.

In an ideal world,

The moment seems perfect,

To precept a rise.

Rush through the fields of gold-

And conquer the many pedestals.

Yet, an idealist is just a dreamer.

With paltry hopes, settling as fickle wisps 

That marks arrows to an desired road.

Confusion also reigns on-

What's right, what's not?

What's left to be right?

What's a dream and what must be the path?

What's the way to really go on, from here?

An angry heart rules the  mind-

This road is not mine.

A debacle calls for a debate-

That elevates but not rebates-

The greys.

As the mentor had turned a man-eater,

The monstrous passage,

Could only harden the submissive to  be 

Without emotions and actions.

The eyes, sleepless, seek a solution,

In the darkness of days.

Eerily, the  answer lies crystal clear-

To the unasked question.

Nepotism, is not the way-

The forum lacks an appealing form.

There's a Titanic in every ship,

Which will sink-

Fact of the act is to

Exit on the Incline.

Somewhere I belong

Conversation spirals with the soul curry,
Cascade to hazed thoughts-
That flow on regardless of years.
Time, changes nothing,
As the core remains a flotsam still.
My brother, acts like a twin-
Soaking the darkness,
Letting the twilight win.
The endless butts pile up,
The smoke, strangely giving a clarity.
Thoughts are crystal more,
As the mind gains more strength to decide,
On the travesty.
Somewhere, there's power in the knowledge
Of the inevitable.
Truth, is a dark secret-
And to outrun the diminishing space,
The pace must be greater.
Feeling the claustrophobia,
Of years-
All we care about,
Is to runaway.
Escape the odds,
And live solo.
'Coz, dreams are many and pointless-
Trust is barely a toss of coin.
Loss and win,
Remains in no-one's control-
Yet, as puppets, we dangle,
To fate.
To fade?
Proximity,is an illusion,
Till closure gives the solution.
Runaway-
To own space-
To somewhere,
Where the 'I', may belong too.

Finito

And that's it,
The Tortoise, did reach the finish line-
Ultimately.
So, what about the victorious feeling?
None surfacing.
It's a dead end in a dead man's world-
An empty soul stares out with it's empty eyes
At the podium.
Grimace, laced with distaste,
And a deep scorn,
Steals over the benign features.
Vacant mind,
Searches through the numbness-
To seek a way through,
To fade away in absolute abstraction.
The end point,
Seems sanguine now.
An acceptance of a minority status-
Being slow, to know,
Yet loving the scathed sojourn.
Was it death of a belief system?
And what could ego do too,
At such a rate-
When the fate lies in a finito?