Tripping Into Me

By Gauranshi Sharma

And then, even before I could blink,

I was already falling in this quiet abyss,

for I knew the heavens couldn’t save me

from drowning into the hands of my own insanity.

Too dumb, too quiet, too blind,

yet somehow, the loudest people did find.

And though my eyes have tended to always express,

nonetheless have failed to scream the truths

my lips have sacredly suppressed.

Justice gets served only when it’s too late.

The synergy of yearning waits outside, sealed in a crate—

all to be crushed into the mist that’s supposed to heal,

before it could reach the one whom it was meant for, previously.

And how silly the mist pretends to be;

for the flowers, which once danced with bees,

are caressing the ground where the rain falls now,

damp and ruined—just like the crate, somehow.

And as I take a halt, a pause, to breathe,

the abyss shuts with sheer uncertainty.

My nerves suddenly ought to see,

coming back to the undying reality—

that chokes me till my brain does fog,

missing the little bittersweet paradox.

My heart clenches with pure misery,

guilty of holding on too endlessly—

of being unable to hold the crate,

or save the flower from… its own fate.

By Gauranshi Sharma