28 June 2011
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Someday,
You look at yourself in the mirror.
Qui est la? Qui est la? Qui est la?
And overarching words and promises spill out of your lips, fragile
feeble and failing. The assonance, the vowels, the formed ‘w’, ‘h’, ‘o’ and
every words and every ‘a’ , ‘m’ ‘i’ crashes into the tides of incoherency. We
hang paltrily to cold, banal words. shackled, waiting boats that promises an
adventure of a lifetime, but we are Gulliver tied down by our fettered threads
of promises and we are Persephone consumed and caged in our flames of hell.
They say, “The seeds of pomegranate rages in her”.
The eternal flame and the winding threads will hold you down while you wait for
the tsunami of a lifetime to consume you.
But the unravelling tides of time makes the harshness of the cold
becomes your familiar, and you forget, you forget the summer solstice and
Gulliver’s travels. You live your existentialist lives, a blur, a meld, and
when the elegiac strain of your heart cries, ‘Qui est la?’
It’s too late.
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