An evening

The brightly lit room, a menagerie of colours and things…
A bright young lady, a student,
Labours with a set of inquisitions
of markedly cliched merit.
I, the author of mediocre questionnaires,
Sit, with ‘Youth’
Lying ignobly by..
Words, reflecting me, in perverted mirrors;
(or are my eyes crossed?)

The answers are unfulfilling:
An unexplained lack,
A dilute reality,
That escapes comprehension by the merest inch!
I scold a half-hearted repproach..
Disappointment is perennial..

A song plays,
It beats on the eardrums-
Suave beats of alternate tremeloes;
Lyrics are rude, poking needles!
They wash over me
In neglected waves…

The road is a routine-
Punctuated with the essentials..
The light of poets,
The night of noir,
The darkness of ghosts,
The people of neglect,
The destination is a step, if it is a thousand…

The bus is a suffocation,
In strange company,
And uncouth moisture-
That seeps
Into the skin-
Irritating my bones!
An ill-fitting shirt, packed for directionless wander….

-Shakya Bose