Gently Then, Cruelly Now
I touch the roughened, scarred trunk
Of a palm tree and swirl around it.
A bird sways with me, a little too drunk.
I carry the sun kissed smell of life and make a butterfly flit…
She bobs up and down, with shimmering wings.
A leaf she sits upon looks radiant, blessed.
I playfully force her to move, but she clings.
The angry leaf trembles, asking me why I messed.
I soothe the frayed nerves of his,
Promise him the best behaviour of mine.
I move along, trying to bestow the kiss,
Of life, on the beings waiting for me, in a line.
The freedom that I possess is intoxicating,
Loosing all my sense of right and wrong.
I rush ahead, all cylinders firing,
And alas! Tear a bud from where it belonged.
Admonished by beings from all walks of life,
I halt, speechless with horror, aghast.
Inside my heart rages on a strife.
My innards twist, I hear my heart beat its last.
I cannot bring myself to tell them all
Something that I surely know, will never be true.
No fake promises, with a dead heart and cold face, I fall
From their graces, which singed me now, I jump headlong into the unknown blue.
Now, I laugh and scorn, dying inside, at their losses.
My laugh, more like a howl of despair, in mine ears, rings.
Inspire of all my efforts, nothing happens to the tenacious mosses.
And yet, as I fake this facade, I crumble within, as if pulled by unseen strings.
Years later, it does not affect me anymore,
I easily turn my back and move on.
I am now a pitiless, brutal villain of lore.
I often wonder where, all those cruddy emotions have gone.
I chose not to be the errant, yet in line,
But to be the outlaw, whom everyone curses.
A cowardly choice,but I know I will be fine.
Stupid of me, perhaps to give such value to promises.
I take solace in the fact that,
I am the villain standing in the sunlight, brazenly.
Rather than the hidden, blood sucking bat.
I was gently yours once, I was the breeze, now I am the storm, still yours, cruelly.
When we set out for life, the real one; after years of being sheltered by our loved ones, we behave like the wind at the beginning of this poem. The world seems ours to command, everything is exhilarating and we can do no wrong. Incidentally, that’s a lot like falling in love.
But time and circumstance makes cynics out of the best of us. It’s sometimes thought of as growing up, leaving our ebullient days behind. I beg to differ. I think it’s more of breaking your soul into pieces, making horcruxes due to other people’s behaviour. It’s sad.
A cynic is someone who is at their very core, unhappy and miserable and it’s not their fault. They were made so because of other cynical people, who in turn are embittered because of their interactions with other cynics.
You see what a vicious cycle this is? Don’t feed it. Whatever happens, don’t be like the wind. Retain a bit of the original in you. Excessive exhilaration might prove detrimental, but it’s better than no exhilaration at all. Live a little, hurt a lot, learn the most.