Hazy, Blurry Moments of a Fast-Paced Life

Hazy, Blurry Moments of a Fast-Paced Life

Written by Ayush Banerjee


I wish 

my eyes could capture 

faces that my mind often forgets. 

Unable to embrace them,

the heart regrets,

moments that slowly wither in my mind,

(a hasty yet silent crumble). 

Birds, their robust feathers,

solemnly crusading against the gruesome weather,

those that used to find solace in the shelter of the tress,

(the branches of which could no longer hold on

to his leaves,

was born out of stretch marks 

and unspoken battles of his own

could no longer comfort the weary feathers);

their merry chirps until a reluctant return before nightfall

was a song, in disguise of a saviour,

to the despised appearance of the tree. 

Their flight back to the nest

reminds me of every evening 

when my disinterested footstep

and my detached spring

would find their way to my mother’s face,

awaiting my presence in her otherwise lonely haven. 

Ghastly bushes and the evening sky

that travel with every fading second,

along with the car’s speeding window

(ah! if only my mind 

could let loose

of the memories that too can fly). 

The cigarette smoke

paves way for its own escape

through minor and major holes of time.

The eyes lost in the descending subway stairs

as every foot tries to rush against ticking clock,

words, moments and faces,

they’d overlap

like every nervous sip from coffee 

gone cold, yet the after-taste lingers fine. 

Meshes of a subway rush-

the heart beats faster

and my mind only knows of the escape;

my feet ascend along with the stairs,

a weary battle against time

and I wish the daily run

would’ve been easier; 

hazy lights as they pass by

like streaks of memories,

rekindled in the mind. 

Every lighting candle burns

for a longing presence in the darker hallways,

every drop of wax shed

to form into smoke

that is born only to rise and blend in with the air.

The smoke has hardly felt the blemishes of time,

a bottle of an old wine 

has heard the whispers of emptiness

that time itself has fed. 

My eyes,

endlessly searching for hope

in every light,

like puddles across the street

trying to embrace the moonlight,

eyes, fearlessly open wide

noticing minute moments of chaos

ascending into a sudden pause of midnight. 

My innocent eyes, bewildered, 

by the bitter-sweet melancholy of life,

coated in layers 

of past betrayals, present growth

and a reassuring future,

have been a part of mankind’s greatest tragedy, 

for every eye is cursed with loneliness

and the cure to which lies beyond

the other side of a boundary:

walls made of flesh, bones and lies,

eyes caged in sockets,

unaware of each other’s existence. 


Ayush Banerjee
Ayush Banerjee

A poetry connoisseur, Ayush writes what he sees, experiences, and believes. 

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