Illustration: Bharati Varrier |
A cluttered storehouse is my
attic,
an overflowing archive of
rankling thoughts
crammed into dark spaces of
isolation.
Accumulations of stubborn grit
-
damp, stale, acrid residue
from outdated grief -
survive in greasy reticence
the cycles of time and reason.
Rags of unwanted memories,
chunks of broken vases of
dreams,
lie abandoned
with old records of truth and
fallacies.
Fear, like a creepy
multi-legged,
is entrapped in a fuzzy cobweb
of flashbacks and
extrapolations.
Will the tarantula crawl out
and traverse the hidden
crevices
of the crowded attic of my
brain?
I’ll let the
darkness, the silence,
and the stillness
be,
lest I send the
mites –
the qualms –
running all over
my raw nerves
in fits of frenzy.
I wish I could
vacuum my attic clean.
[Featured as Weekly Poem by Oz
Poetic Society for the week February 2-9, 2014]