Will my words sit timidly on the threshold of life forever hesitant, directionless and self-deprecating or like restless vagabonds traverse the unlikeliest of places wandering on the lips of strangers unknown
What determines the life of a song is it the number of times it is sung or when its relevance surpasses time to flow into eternity morsels of soul wrapped in metaphors do they satiate other souls or meet disdain and curl up and wither trampled by indifference
From these tattered, stitched up verses would anyone try to piece my lies or would they lie gathering dust under a stash of showy strophes would some wise eye espy the thread of truth discreetly running through or would they be dismissed as trite tedious tropes
Spring-like these words gurgle on their own they know not what they want except that they want to flow my pen gives them the spotlight that they crave though I crave not the spotlight a mystery, an enigma I claim not to be I do have a yen for the luxury of anonymity.
It is time to hail the dead end the closed doors and lack of opportunities It is time to accept that a dead end often points to another path sometimes more scenic and fulfilling than the one you had set your heart on
detours; forced or voluntary open windows into the unknown it may or may not happen serendipitously but there is no accompanying drama of thunderstorm, lightning or celestial prophecy it happens unobtrusively, quite quietly
pushed willy-nilly into teaching high schoolers was like being thrown into the cage of a hungry lion except that they were a bunch of forty antsy teenagers and I, the object of their curiosity I became the lion in the enclosure to be watched and poked at
after those initial days of hiccups we did grow together; the teacher and the taught learning as I began teaching being enriched while enriching lives and the job that I never wanted changed my life forever and continues to define me even after I quit enfolding me in a warm embrace of fuzziness
dead ends are not full stops; they are but semi colons not glaring red but flickering soft green which you may miss if you blink next time you are up against a wall pause, don’t give up and look around believe me you will find a chink.
Honeyed mellifluous words tinged with paprika drip from your crushed cinnamon coloured lips your vanilla skin with a touch of sea salt and saffron is reminiscent of the theatrics of the Tuscan sunset like a swollen river undulating through verdant vales the need for you flows recklessly through my veins sometimes you are zatar, at others garam masala making my staid life a mural of flavours.
Written for dVerse poetics. Today’s host, Merril, has asked us to get spicy. Read about it here.