untitled

How is it that I can only see an isolated beauty through your pain?

Waiting to realise that I have been looking at it for a while now,

Trying to understand it,

The kind of pain that only unfiltered eyes can communicate with.

My eyes are nothing but a mere camera,

Shooting a scene with no director’s planned vision.

Your timid shrivels and my sheer transparency,

Make me feel like I live within you.

All your actions look like a ballerina’s dance rehearsal,

On the peek of toes, careful and delicate.

Your anger turns into cold ignorance,

Because you learned that it only aches in your chest when people blame their insensitivity on fleeting fury.

Your past stories and things you never spoke about,

Are verses of repression in my diary like lumps in the throat’s cage.

Yearning  to escape as vulnerable tears,

They have strains and prints of silent battles.

As I get interrupted out from my aimed vision,

And close my eyes to blink,

You turn into a reflection,

A sentence in the chapter I can’t explain.

The next lines I can think of are too vague,

For a concept that resides in my head.

On this wrinkled page, I find my pen hesitates,

To paint a self-portrait like I can sculpt contours of the people I meet.

I can only write unsettling verses,

For I am the enigma, caught in the in-between.

-Mauli Nautiyal