It's 5AM and the clock is late,
the rush to dress up and change my fate,
but the wrinkle is annoying the mane,
and the greys are flaying the vein,
I carry the mirror in mind,
leave the resigned sigh behind.
The train is packed with eyes,
I stand under the strain of lights
the dark skin is brighter,
maybe they'll like me better,
their shampoos leave no clue,
only the fan comes to my rescue.
Waiting for the elevator,
a minty breath drifts over the shoulder,
the noose around my neck chokes
gasps for breath and the heart pokes
the lights are incandescent inside
empty faces on the outside.
The tube-light and the guard flickers
People wearing strange monikers
floating close to the floor
a door opens, the stupor
he sashays along leaving them behind,
my eyes lose him and hope to find.
Clocks go by and the hours shiver
the cardigan shrugs off and the lips quiver
a sudden surge of reason, cold air ,
aimlessly slides off my ruffled hair
witness to the porcelain teapot stare,
bits and pieces of emotion broken glassware.
Lights race up and memories fall,
drifting pain and a searing call,
their eyes gasp and the jaw snaps,
the mind is free but the body clasps,
the coal-wood windows open their show,
lying below on a streak of red snow...
Gyanban Thoughts : Mismatch is an experimental form of poetry, trying to connect the unconnected, but strangely they are , isn't it? Much like the difference which connects us all in a single universe, or the multiverse which is similar while being so different.