Red flowers outside my window

Flowers on concrete,

in concrete, in intangible quantities

in my heart- they fill my hollow

with colour like never before.

In situations that cut me open,

they run to get stitches

again and again:

loyalty that I wonder how I deserve.

And sometimes they lose me in crowds of

unknown faces at every turn

but in the break

between two rocks at a faraway beach,

away from reality, I’ll find them

blossoming between my broken heart.

again.

 

The oblivious.

I’m astounded by the oblivious.
How carefree and unapologetically pragmatic, they are-
The old uncle of the bus,
The squealing children,
The office-going folk,
The old women,
The young ones with earphones,
And the ticket collector of them all.

I enter, a stranger.

They stop and look and go on with their day.
The bus is a medium of travelling-
Just another vehicle with smelly armpits and lecherous stares;
Just another vehicle with dirt and a crowd.

Oh how they would long to have facilities of luxury-
For the children and the family, of course.
And then they would live their lives in the ‘big picture’.
But really how fortunate they are to live this life!
I get out of my car to take the bus
And they, the small specs of reality that make up the ‘big picture’,
Get out of the bus to buy a worthless car.