Twisted

By Veena Balakrishnan

Life is nothing but a lie,

A mirror house with the reflection of a ghost.

What is and what not are the same,

Yet so different like fire and water.

One kills the other and the other the one.

A merry-go-round without the merry,

Rusted and creaking.

Too used or unused?

Can’t say I never tried oiling,

The oil only made it burn harder.

Too cold for the fan,

Yet too warm for the blanket.

Naked, bare lays the heart,

Light and vulnerable to,

Emotions that sting and bleed.

But it sure is the ointment,

For truth only makes the wound deeper.

It is the start and the destination,

The same fabric wrapped in as a baby,

The same but now shroud to your body.

By Veena Balakrishnan