He announces his arrival,
in a long black robe, with a noose to boot,
as I scramble on all fours,
hanging on to dear life, before I fall into the black shapeless cauldron.
The rag picker meticulously wreaks havoc,
picking faces and memories, that torment my waking soul,
and parades around his bounty, weaving a web of stories,
mockingly,
so I don’t forget the borrowed life,
that I so dearly claim mine.

As reality rudely interrupts,
pulling me out by the scruff of my neck,
he recedes to the shadows,
sparing me, leaving me floating in warm waters.
But my soul, with countless punctures,
gropes around in the darkness,
for the thread it was hanging to,
that promised a new sunrise at every step,
blissfully ignoring the milestones of my waking life.

I walk around, like a headless chicken,
painting the canvas of realities that never were,
of realities that I lost,
of realities that were never mine to have,
half awake in this netherworld,
half accepting the faces that pass me by,
finally resigning to wallow in my pathetic state,
on a day the big black shape enveloped my night.

On a day he let loose my wandering mind,
kicking my precious house of cards,
that I lovingly built leaving my past behind.