My comb rushing through the length of my hair,
strands scattering here and there,
like memories separating from me.
On the floor
they form a tapestry
of events still alive in me
Perhaps they resemble
the broken pieces of my soul,
as I gather them
to make a convoluted whole.
What am I to do with this segregated self?
Can I rely on a fairy or perhaps an elf?
To weave these strands while I sleep,
into a tiara: eternal and deep.
Memories do not live with me,
Alzheimer's killed them long before
I could jot them down in a diary.
I fumble with everything
failed to recognise anybody around me,
O brain! Such an unfaithful partner thou could be!
Every corner of me has been abandoned,
while perplexities and frustrations
lay abundant.
I’m living in a murky oblivion,
as abortive
as a broken crayon.
I’m often perturbed by a man and his engaging talks,
he makes memories out of these fading locks,
and claims to be my husband,
but these locks of hair
resist befriending.
He shows me the photo album
while I stare blankly at him.
My befuddled stare makes him cry,
no matter how much one may try,
these strands of hair will spell transience,
for nothing stays eternal;
it all vanishes in seconds.
- Shambhavi Misra
(B.A. (Hons.) English)
(Edited by Shreya and Pallavi
Art curated by Anshika)
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