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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The aircraft might be fifteen minutes late, You might be there, before it's too late. Too late to reach there before you take off, Off to somewhere, within the country, Or without, or even beyond, my mother told me. Better I shut my eyes, with uneven , umkempt hair, the torn lips, unattended, and the dry mouth, Incognisant of thirst, as if it hates The water, loves to be mashed within, Inside and out, a hollow chunk of existence. The rumbling, wobbling car cannot wake me up from anything, for I am not sleeping. The best counterfeit of sleep I master, With eyes closed, but the brain moving faster, With thoughts chilling and horrifying, Interminable palpitations. With the aching forehead I'll wait, With the hope for a rendezvous, If not at the aerodrome, Then definitely somewhere else, Beyond the limitless time , Resilient of the brunt of time , we'll meet, Still fifteen minutes left though, May be in reality, or in a reverie, It does not matter, for hope is truth. The aching temples will release the shackles of pain, intermittently. Perhaps the aircraft has taken the aerial route already, My car's moving slow , but I'll reach there, At least a tiny pellet convinced me so, That killed the sting at the forehead and dried the sweaty palm, The air of the lounge will convey to me The story of my imagination, The tale of her absence, And of the genuine celerity Of the mechanical bird, Flown off. Still fifteen minutes are left. 28th March, 2021.
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