Metanoia.

In the time-worn canvas, 

A child’s doll

Rests 

With a crack in the face

Spiralling down, 

Aching muscles strewn aside, 

Disregarded.

The mind 

Becomes an archive 

Of old cassettes 

That used to play fancy lullabies 

But now smell of 

Spilled liquor 

And guarded smiles.

The most evidential part 

Of growing up is 

Realising 

You cannot always keep 

The ones you love.

There is no moon.

Picture by Vargab Dasgupta.

There is no moon;

every fortnight

the road plunges through the ligneous door

and goes ever on and on,

reversible,

away from the denser reality.

I follow his trail

forgetting my snacks and magazines

for he promises me answers

each time to a separate set of questions.

I run,

he ascends,

I fall behind,

he severs his words,

I trudge back,

waiting another lunar half cycle

to chase

the thin,

blurred line

between the deciphered

and the unfamiliar iteration.