nobody listens when you need to be heard the most
from the blues to the utter darkness, couldn’t care less, no
if there is no room for life after catharsis
why am I looking
why am I even looking
for my northern lights?
Sad monotones from sad keys of monochrome
sadder dreams of playing those notes left abandoned
who is this new person – I don’t recognise her –
no angst anymore, no dreams,
Spanish guitar may move her spirit,
but the subdued ivory sonatas still hit closer to home.
Why does she dream of simpler times, of ‘aching joys’ even before she sleeps?
Shelley couldn’t have saved her, no,
poetry never did
why, of all the things she could’ve thought of, she went back to the yellow doll?
I miss her terribly,
I wish faithfully
that in an alternate reality she can reverse it all.
She waits by the lamppost
ink stains on the street – glimmering blue –
Blue water, blue skies, blue, blue mind…
maybe blue could be a good colour too.
perhaps it is what it is for reasons too ethereal
perhaps like the passing seasons, it is not to be observed
but to truly feel
and through it, to heal
And perhaps, there is a reason for everything to be per se
perhaps she’s had to fight too many dark nights,
for darkness to never again hold sway
© Isha Garg