Written by Tathagata Banerjee
Soft fingers and whispered sweet nothings
Have painted the melancholic city neon green.
My mixed metaphors have built houses of cards every day,
Easy distractions and somnambulist murmurs will outlive us all
In deserted narrative of silent stories,
I’ve walked away from diminishing returns,
Like a war hero or a pathetic coward – which one, I never know
On the other side of my unfinished manuscript
Nicknames have lost meanings every single time.
Tip-toe narratives of deadly disasters touched the canvas white
A nameless crowd has always known homebound roads.
I’ve walked on eggshells in minefields for so long
Stranger last names have taken long-winded detours,
To turn back into strangers again,
And I’ve run away from everyone, always
I’ve been running since time immemorial
Inflicting pain is all I’ve known, always… on everyone… and me…
Grand narratives that smelled like sunshine have always
Been lost in my narrative…
June similes haunt farewell letters
Syllables of Shakespearean time…
Mellow midnight names have known a thing or two
About poetic hurts and paper thin pretensions;
Tearing down always needs some tearing up, it seems
And in nameless, faceless oblivion
June has come and gone again,
Silent – like a love letter that
I’ve failed to write or missed to receive.
