And just when bone deep exhaustion
In my soul clamours for a break from it all…
A gusty wind picks up, and whooshes through
The curtain, that partly opened window;
The one I tried to shut. Tight.
And out billows tendrils of not just
My stringy hair…
But labored threads of threatening thoughts.
The “What If”s, the regrets, the tiny tenacious lichen-like
Scabs of memories. Of another day.
This gutsy gusty thing. I wish I could be it.
23 July, 2012