Saturday, September 23, 2023
PoetryOde to an Inkling

Ode to an Inkling


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The constant tremble of my toes,
The ache to leave all and tread ahead.
The desire to breathe in fire.
The aim to lunge at the horizon.
The rush rushes for the plane to soar.
I shut the magic and open the screensaver.
My world beckons to mock,
My lust reprimanded.

But dreams persist ahead in the grey restlessness of lazy afternoons.
The plight of moments hovering like laden flies.
Is there an approaching merchant down the winding road,
Bearing adventures of journeys past?
Will the dusty leaves part for a curious pixie to peer out?
Will the rains form an ocean for a walnut boat?
Will the two chasing boys down the street discover an ancient coin amidst concrete?
Will the glistening mirage be of bloody rubies, sing of histories before Man?

There on the wall the fat cat turned
And indecision crept midway.
What if I lay in slumber till end?
What if being a sloth were not a sin?
What if my credit expired?
What if I lay forgotten and the Devil pranced in delight?
What if I saw the far horizon?
What if rejection waited, smug and clawed?
What if I was not the Avatar they awaited, mere mortals, moronic and cruel?

Deep within, the Recluse and his Muse sit arm in arm.
Limbs intertwined in passion.
The Recluse indulges his Muse,
Time forgotten, space confined.
I am without you, within you, the Muse muses.
I am the screams of silence.

But is this silence oblivion of the Steppe, stretching its limbs into the unknown?
Does it wait in hidden corners?
Listening, Lurking, leering?
Fragments of the past buried deepest,
Revisiting in glorious tomorrows?
Does it seek to sooth or to avenge my monotonous history?

Yet hope moves in grace, and promises hidden wonders.
And Time- my confidante whispers Hope’s treacherous sins.
How crude are the tricks!
I stare at the three headed beast,
Wonder, disguise or Almighty’s blessing?

The fear so sunk in, affirms the worst nightmare.
The expected tread of friendly feet,
So far, the self is lost in the vast.
The macabre holds so close.
I can’t break the gaze, what if the relentless follow and slay?
The war that rages within fuels battles of creation.
And my soul senses the beckoning defeat, the end so vivid.

Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash

Isha Sharma
Isha Sharma
Isha Sharma a fiction writer in television and OTT in India. For the last 17 years, she has been working as a creative director and writer across channels and platforms - Sesame Workshop India, Zee TV, Viu etc. 


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