morning

Posted on | February 10, 2010 | Comments Off

I wake up in the morning,
To empty beer bottles of last night, stubs of cigarettes smoked,
Lying desolate in a cup full of ashes,
A plate of dinner half eaten,
And a book, half read and left open, pages curled and battered
From a nightful of artificial breeze.
When I begin to shave, I see a face-familiar, and yet strange
Empty; like those bottles, and hollow eyes, full of ashes,
Seeking a direction to go,
I see in the mirror-
The forgetting which has not been possible, and the
Remembering, which needs to be done, learning, a life.

I see books forgotten, half read, and
Stories never told, raconteurs who went too shy-
And I tell myself-‘this is not too bad, I will live’
Every morning, I look in a cup full of ashes,
And things I have abandoned to survive,
To live and be called alive- loves, dreams and desires
Pieces of coloured paper burnt in a dusty gray in an indifferent fire,
and scraps of yellow sunshine forgotten in neon signs,
hidden behind sulky memoranda and deceptively pretty presentations,
and then the clock strikes eight- and I leave for office.

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