So maybe she’s mastered the poker face

put the moon in a wineglass

and escaped into the ink stained night

reflecting no light, no starry blink

no expression, no worries

taking in the eclipses and storms

that rent the firmament, into her galaxy

and never crying tears of stardust.

So maybe no one can see the dying bird inside her

bleeding crimson in the heart

wings flap-flap-flapping in a wild frenzy

breath – a lone whisper in the dark

(or perhaps a wail)

like anxious glasses shattering endlessly

and panic in her fingers as they close in on her throat

bubbling wide eyed palpitations at midnight.

So maybe she’s fighting the dark night even as she gleams in the light,

maybe they believe, that she really is fine…

And maybe,

that’s what she wants.

Β© Isha Garg

27 thoughts on “Maybe”

  1. GOD, I LOVE THIS. (Sorry, but yes all caps were needed). This was a gorgeous piece of writing, You are one of the reasons I continue fighting my blurred vision and continue blogging.
    The words you chose and the wonderful flow all added to the power in this piece.

    And your finale…….it couldn’t be more perfect, Isha, Bravo.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. You made my day, Drew. I am truly touched by what you said πŸ™ As for continuing blogging, I don’t think WordPress would be the same without your impeccable, lovely blog – one of my reasons to continue blogging!
      I thank you, kind one!

      Liked by 1 person

      1. ….. and when the shaking stops I can finally add ….(catching breath) …. that I deem your writing something so very special dear dear Isha! ❀️😘πŸ’₯πŸ’₯πŸ’₯

        Liked by 1 person

  2. I read this post as divided into two parts, the first about the galactic unrest trapped inside her reminds me how our perceptions and proportions change when we delve deeper, closer to ourselves and yet how they appear like a static universe to others.
    The use of the dying bird metaphor for the self(soul?) in the second part therefore both contradicts(when compared to galaxies and stardust) and at the same time enhances the proportion of the struggle within by giving it a meaning that comes close to being the death of the potential, of the flight.
    Maybe deep down she is not convince that the bird within is dying, hope pervades all of our melancholic pretensions.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Oh this is such a good treatise I read it twice! I don’t think I put that much thought into it while writing, especially the first bit, which unfolded naturally, embracing the image of the galaxy and perpetuating it.
      The poem was more about the second part – the fluttering wings of the dying bird – a state of anxiety in the face of perceived calm.
      This poem is one of those untasted, ungarnished dishes, served the instant they’re prepared.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I see, so I read more than what was written, or probably not. It definitely reads more than it being about anxiety and perceived calmness or maybe it is me πŸ™‚ Poetry, like painting loses the originality as it is garnished, making it more palatable and therefore more ordinary.

        Liked by 1 person

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