Twisted Roads Poem by Pinaki Dewan

I am estranged by the burgeoning of her insouciance:
Her rock against the lashes of my waves,
The apple stuck where the heart was supposed to be free.

She becomes a tree, corrupting the barren earth;
Life defiles the desolation, and a faint whisper, a stare;
Behind every death, a resurrection.

The headlights of hope crucifying the fog,
I await an accident, a bloody abeyance,
But the skilled driver makes it, positive capability.

There was a noose that tied the wind but now it ties only tears,
The wind that provides breath cannot suffocate to death,
But tears die like plucked flowers every time anyway.

I have been in front of bars, laughing at those behind them,
They took the right path to the wrong hole.
I cry for those who took the wrong path to the right hole.

All my life I have sought an egress and run into pages,
Stained with the last sap of petals, now dry and inconspicuous:
I wonder if the stains matter now to the deceased or to the pages or to me.

She gets things, she tells me, I tell her I have never been understood,
And she says, 'I understand.'
And then we stare at each other for a while and laugh for the next ten minutes.

'You know it's sad how the night turns into day, ' she tells me,
'How the multitude, the variety, shifts into one, into a kind of bland sameness.'
I tell her, 'We are all going there.'

'Like how the world is losing creativity? '
'Like how all the different I's become, are becoming, will continue to become one.'
'Or perhaps, nothing. I kinda relate that analogy to how death compares to dawn.'

'But you have to admit day has its own hues.'
'So, this oblivion is colourful, you say? '
'Don't you think so? '
'I don't know anything anymore.'