Unbridled mosaics

My present is a grave

The past a pestilent and noxious corpse , And my nebulous future the ledger ,

Perhaps too out of our grasp.

I’ve always contemplated about the never-ending malediction of life , exquisite like a midsummer night’s dream or a tragedy built on walls of unburnt bricks , a burden that hangs over our shoulders like a butterfly dancing in spring’s soft perfume.

Scarlet tears weeping from the cherry’s skin , a reminiscence of blood draining from cobalt beneath a plain canvas of a girl consigned to oblivion by the ones who were supposed to love and care for her. The irony lies deep within.

People are mosaics of every soul they have come close to touching or have had the privilege to witness beyond the shackles of skin and bones. An unbridged gap between reality and a dreamy conscience , all the memories , you thought you had buried long ago , flooding every inch of you , kindred spirits making the same identical mistakes over and over again so,

we might as-well call nostalgia a gentle cannibal,

the way it savours what once was and slowly turns it into a century of repressed , loathsome longing.

And if i had the chance to erase you , and erase the dock where we sat while the vines intertwined with the grassy lake water ,

flushing away , reflecting like a mirror of lies veiled by contentment and poise,

I would do so , and whether or whether not you become a part of my mosaic again , i leave it upto fate.

                      —— Prachi Dhawan