​Sunshine in the Attic

A mirror tells the future, 
a birthday gift from father.

He seldom gifts any hope,

I decided not to accept it.

I don’t remember my birthdays,

ritual of counting reverse,

your days from the doom.

I kept the mirror in foliage,

covered it with stacks of hues.

you can’t bury something forever,

even if they don’t sprout and embrace,

springs of all dark skinned flowers.
Mirrors too dream, of eternal skies,

anguished summer’s dust-wiping fingers.

My mirror, in its vanity autumn blanket,

all the leaves dead and drained,

had no shining reflection.

A man in boyish looks, whose

eyes implacable, shoulders hanging.
Have I told you this was about future?

that everything you see is distant,

like the crush of galaxies in light years leap.

A childhood gift from father,

like an implanted whisker in the face.

Whenever I said, I knew my fate,

they, my friends leaned against walls,

make impromptu sounds akin to father,

tells me – “You are doing all fine”
Not so soon came my heyday

days I invested my faith in world

only to see it slips through fingers.

I presumptively judge bright days,

smell of cologne and familiar dresses,

all fondling consolations.

every good song reminds us of a person

we either lost in our way, or 

we holding tight not to lose.
sacrilegious ceremonies called days,

in them you fight your demons,

needless to say they are unholy of all wars.

After a thousand blame games, you,

ill fated, mistaken in the mirror,

entrap yourself in snares of doubt.
You find the noose, find a head

and day for hanging.

you are bereaved, easily but solemnly.

cometh the hour of apocalypse

the mirror shatters into thousand particles

in the attic of my memory I feel it.

Hailstorms revisit, trees bear fruit,

warmth and smell of springs came back.

I learned to forget the future, like

it has never happened.

 

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