I used to write poetry in metaphors
From chains to chimes, from freedom to silence
They came out to be too deep to define
After two days I used to question their depth
After four days I used to question their meaning
After six days I used to question my sanity.
Couldn't I have looked through the eyes of change?
The words which had flown around in my mind,
The words which had finally landed on paper,
Were too blurred a memory for me to understand,
A long-gone past I could not fathom.
I once witnessed Calvin saying to Hobbes,
'Its funny how day by day, nothing changes
But when you look back, everything has changed.'
The words I wrote, were a mark of the present
Of every second that passed, every millisecond its part.
And as I couldn't fathom those marks beneath my fingers,
Couldn't recall what I felt at that very moment,
I woefully accepted the truth which clawed at me
I couldn't get back the past, no one could, really
(Unless, of course, physics, my salvation
Provides a path which confuses everything further).
And so I penned down this poem, an effort
To write something down every mind could understand
An attempt to travel in time, to get the past back
To define the slope clearly, to give me an idea
Of the bigger picture I've been craving, but failing to arrange.
