Looking At The Ruinsout of nowhere, spaces crack open,
opening a path to the fountain of blue,
by whose shade oceans and skies undress themselves.
How pure, how overwhelming their nakedness
I sit and watch this ritual repeating itself, night after night and occasionally, dip my feet into the fountain,
half-afraid it would swallow me whole,
and swallow it does.
I'm spit out: tired, shrunk and drenched in blue,
like them, who lost themselves,
but whose hue has undone the apple's curse
for those cursed with the burden to leave it
out amidst the folly of the fools and live forever,
in phrases like "To be or not to be"
But how many more must have been reduced to a heap of emotions?
And how long
before someone watching
their own reflection in the clear waters of the fountain stood,
realized, looking back at time, and then around,
that their being could, in all righteousness, become nothing
but a heap of emotions?
Oh, to be and not to be
I've walked into open spaces
often enough to know the epiphany must have come on seeing the bluest heap
when no reason was left to distinguish
I feel blue
I am blue
Poetry by Praveen Bhusal
Read 143 times
Written on 2017-12-21 at 16:40
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