September is the cruellest month
the rain simmers, grasslands left burning
hovering between agony and inability to be static
you run around waking up in madhouses
you look for streets with mirrors
hoping you will find yourself in passing by.
Or you will stumble upon a concrete jungle
holding up a canvas of a cerulean sky
in a narrow alley way cinching with hours
dedicated to a life you no longer can call yours.
The fields at midnight look like an abandoned plea
and the city reeks of honks and dreams you can no longer seize
highways sink and stir with night’s fantasies
the market is full of mannequins, falling in love
with their parent’s dream. Winter is the cruellest
time, begging you to look at the life you are hoarding
when you are only a figurine of happenstances.
You sit wondering what life would be
in a few months, a plane ride away
underneath the cherry blossoms or
slicing open tangerines on the beach
but really just a ride
away from the cubicles of your mind, virgin
of all the algorithms you have learnt to survive.
So you sink between cities, wallow in trains
in planes hoping a street will speak to you
that milestones will unfold your prayers
restore this reckless abandon in you.
September is the cruellest hand
Delhi is bruised Dadri lonely
you are looking for the kind of solace
that takes the first train
from outskirts to run along foreign lines
to find a spark in graffiti walls, and overgrown
gardens home to forts of lovers, for
a moment that will softly sit on your lip,
linger on your skin seeping into all the people you have been
and you will come back to your own bed
meandering from all the times
you never felt like yourself.
*The first line is taken from the poem Wastelands By T.S Eliot “April is the cruellest month breeding lilacs out of the dead..”
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