Servants of Time

Tick tock
She is born
He toddles his way across the floor
Tick tock
They bought her books!
He can now read sentences and make friends
Tick tock
They are young
The future is long. The world is big.
Tick tock
The school left behind
And they have grown to young adults
Tick tock
And slugging off to work
Their dreams just lie a-waiting.
Tick tock
And now they're parents
Watching, judging, critiquing
Tick tock
Another generation flung
Into a cycle till death do us part
Tick smash
I break the clock
I quit and let the world swim by
Crrrr chink
No I don't need it now
YOU DON'T OWN ME! You don't...
Chink tick
It's back again
And we're stuck in another routine.

When Summons Taunt and Haunts Beckon

Slowly but surely she settles into that role

Of gut wrenching pain in the mornings

And a satisfied sigh in the evenings

Her days are set. Her path is kept.

Should she wait or walk astray?

Her heart is silent today

It had been shushed too many times

Now it refuses to offer its opinion

Unless in extreme circumstances

When it is clearly not needed.

Her mind is tired.

It has been working on overdrive

Day in and day out

Adjusting to new demands. Solving immediate issues.

It just wants a long time out.

Her eyes are heavy

With make up, expectations and sleep

She dare not wink

Or she'll miss it. The opportunity.

The one that's never meant to be.

She has to fight the very Nature,

That ties her to her place,

Break past strings of contempt, history and silence,

Lick all wounds clean. Stand tall again.

Once more she'll jump.

Up or down. She'll never know.

She has only learnt to smile at flight

And brush off every fall

To carry on till she makes another jump,

Another step, another risk for the call.

Royal Chains

A chagrin grind of a churning stone

The blatant burn of the breaking bone

The built-up walls of a dreamless home

A numbing thought of the mind alone.

The matchstick burns the candlelight dry

And the darkness succumbs to majesty on high

For he rules the throne far from the cry

On the streets. "Those peasants," he sighs.

Another crack of that whip and now the blood.

"Work!" says he who need not scrub the mud

Nor bend the back nor break his bone in a 'THUD!'

Ah, no. He hast not seen the flood

That ripped past their very lives, leaving shreds

Of hopeless rhythm, of each step with no creds

For efforts left unheard of in marketed threads.

But there he sits upon his throne, 

Trying not to scratch or groan,

Nor gaze too long at the lovely maid and moan

Of duty, responsibility- the eternal drone.

A servitude with no scope of defiance.

A responsibility to the peasants' reliance.

Unquenched flames of conquest, the bloody alliance.

Heartless spoils, inhumane manhood and chained lions.

He watches the birds hum. The elephants thump.

The wives sing and the harlequin dance.

He smiles at the loving slave.

Neither is the other.

But both are one.

Both waiting for the day

That chains come undone.

-27/10/16