Concentric Circles
A geometry teacher
in my school
had taught
about concentric circles
many years ago.
But
I have long
forgotten
how to calculate.
I am not really sure
how many circles
are there
when I stare
into the mirror
to examine my eye.
My calculation ability
seems pathetic
now.
The innermost circle
seems the smallest
while the ones
around it seem to get
bigger and
bigger.
But they are hazy
and
the camera lens
in my phone
cannot ever
capture them.
But I can see
those
constantly increasing
concentric circles
through the newly
purchased mirror
nailed to the wall.
Perhaps
my calculation inability
is to be blamed,
for losing count
of those concentric circles.
Narrowing my eyes
I look sharply
into the mirror
and feel
both stupefied
and amused
at the hazy circles
of various sizes
as they continue
to increase
and swirl
endlessly,
in a calculated,
mechanical rhythm.
The language of unhealed wounds
In what language
do scabs of old,
unhealed wounds
choose to speak?
Are they mere patches
of dried skin?
Or
simply a stubborn scar
that has chosen
to stay,
reminding you
of old wounds?
Sometimes beneath
a dried scab,
is a
blood and pustule
mixture,
seeking to dry,
seeking to heal
and
failing miserably,
in each attempt.
Never mind,
every unhealed
wound
will either
choose
its own language
to speak
or
simply choose not
to speak at all.
Fermented snack
Words wrapped in pashmina
and laced
with a class two preservative
is offered
at the altar
of a dying world.
Will the words rot
or ferment?
Altering their flavour
and turning them acidic.
A numb,
dying world,
insulated
in a laboratory
with controlled conditions,
unaware
of its own slow death.
Meanwhile,
these words
are now fermenting.
an acidic smell emanates
from the pashmina-wrapped package.
A sharp-flavoured,
tangy snack
that a hungry passer-by
relishes,
chewing each bit,
slowly.
And
watching the world,
clumsily,
crawl towards death.
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