Loud Frustration

By Rushin Gandhi

The mind has become its own place, for it

Has become a hell, slaughtering all the peace

For every answer, it produces a question

For every solution, a problem.

Welcomes everything strange and terrible

It is quick to empathise, slow to reason,

Comfort it tends dislike. Tranquillity?

A capital act of treason.

It thirsts for problems it cannot solve

Always around worldly issues it has to revolve.

I

They shared the same bed. Even slept

Through the same bedtime stories,

Same colours they saw on their wall, and yet,

Saw each a different shade.

Slowly unfolds the difference,

One liked Alice and other liked the Queen

Neither found it in their heart to believe

Wonderland by each is differently seen.

Same language but differently they speak

Same religion differently they preach

One house, divided by values

If it’s the same house, why cannot there be truce?

Their assumed valour preyed on reason

The entire house was sieged by division

Helpless became friends, family and pets,

What cannot be eschewed, was embraced.

II

What sends my mind quickly into a doubt,

Is the faith placed in artificiality without a doubt

Amassed it has a blind following, perhaps it is a cult

Mimic sages trained by genuine fools – how scandalous a school.

Intelligence gave mankind its evolutionary edge

From stone tools that made life easy,

To weapons that made death easy

Shamelessly wielding intelligence – has historically defined humanity.

The common sense of mankind, handed over to folly and validation

The specie that bathes in the glories of its intelligence

Now outsources most of it to ones and zeroes,

Excellent choice – Here’s a cheer to the beginning of an end.

III

One can live without intellect

No evidence needed to prove that,

Same cannot be said about oxygen and water

And no matter how much we try to condition the air, it keeps getting hotter.

Hence, April no longer is the cruellest month

All months are now taking turns

Winter has started to keeps us warm,

Glaciers have started singing beach songs.

Summer keeps us scorching

Roads have turned into melted ice-creams,

Monsoon has become forgetful of its purpose

As excessive rain killed the crops, accompanied by floods.

Yet, here we are, holding paper straws in one hand

And finger crossed in the other hoping

The turtles are safe and thrilled; least one can expect

After coffee taste every morning being killed.

It is humorously haunting,

But, haunting still.

By Rushin Gandhi