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Poem
I’d heard of Persephone, that beautiful earthly maid, 
Who’d vowed her love to Hades, although her mother forbade –
An enraged Demeter scorched the earth; a desolate paradise was made,
But Persephone visits still, embrocating this soil- 
I know, because these winters would always fade…
 
But if time changes, then why don’t we?
My time is still stagnant as far as the eye can see.

They say that time can heal all those wounds and fill all those holes, 
that rupture, corrode, poison and abrade the soul.
But I am waiting for time and time is waiting for me, 
to forget, forgive and forgo my hurt; to set me free.

Time warps all, rules all- it renews and ruins all that was, is and will be, 
then why won’t time help that sunken and lowly being, that which is me? 

My memories flow in an emulsion of hate and melancholy,
They have flowed, and flowed, and flowed - this river is yet to join the sea,
The sea that will fall off the ends of the earth-

How I wish it would carry that sunken and lowly being, that which is me…

I don’t blame you; my life was a place where you couldn’t be.
Thought I could lock away my heart, and give time its key.
But the key is lost now, all my emotions seem to flee-
the tears, the pain, the helplessness that came when you went, 
they trickle down my abraded cheeks- I’ve lost a part of my heart, 
I am an amputee. 

I do blame time, that awful, abstract, vulgar object that people desire, 
they say that it’s not theirs, they don’t have it and do want it to wait, 
Ha ha! Time is conceited, cruel, a careless entity-
It won’t help me; it will do no good now- my time sure is late.   

I’m sure though, that your time has changed and time has changed you, 
Time must have helped you to revive and yourself, renew.
But time has shunned that other half of the picture that lies shattered on my marble floor, 
it chose not to fix me, and simply walked out my door.   

We all are made, broken and fixed, 
by the time that switches the season and tide.
It floods the dimensions, within which we thrive, seek and hide. 
It is I, the one unwilling to overlook the past, is me-

And thus, I wonder, if time changes, then why don’t we?
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