Do you become what you hate?
Do you become what you love?
Or do you only love what you can’t become?
Or do you love only your reflection in every grain of sand?
What we carve our souls into, is already a mould,
It has thorns, it has nails, and it leeches onto the images our eyes clasp onto,
Every crisp notion of existence I have was a haze before,
It lay stale, rotting in the fungus that was fed to my mind,
At a time when the world I fathomed to exist, existed in only patterns of right and wrong,
And I chose to clutch the trailing thoughts of others,
I stuttered to express what I did not understand,
I raveled myself in which I bludgeoned myself to believe,
A ferry waited at the end of my dying stammering self,
One fateful night I met the night guard at the bank,
He asked me if I wanted to crossover then, morning the ferry would be gone,
I collected the shattered pieces of my mind; some jagged ends bled my soul,
On the way I tripped on the tightly laced shoes,
Then left them near the old tree from where hung ragged clothes, masks and shoes,
Barefoot, I got onto the ferry and set off to the other side,
To find missing pieces of my mind,
To be in presence of those colors of light,
As the beams passed by my soul, images under the veiled reality would form,
Focusing from infinity to a my finite existence, a surreal view,
Yet an existence where my soul could breathe and could trace the waves,
The curved turbulence that sounded the hymns and curses sung by own mind,
Mindlessness was a destructive interference of rays trapped in a cottage,
Walls camouflaged by words scripted by others,
I burnt it down, but the fire still crackles, smoke still blows in the wind,
A rusted bridge, a path appears every fortnight,
A path back to the village of my dying thoughts,
Though much gibberish, mutters my mind, and obscure images, see my eyes,
I shan’t climb that bridge,
Heart is a nomad, but it resides in this land now,
Though tormented by the unknown, it is enlightened,
But the ground is slippery, is cracked and heated, feet are sore and blistered, and nights are chilly,
Yet the solitude is comforting,
As my fixation with my baffling shell of infinite reality is my cocoon of freedom.