Sunday, 11 May 2014


Here is a poem I completed in the morning.  I don't quite understand why I wrote it.


Long, winding path
Endless—black light
Shows the way
To lost travellers
Who never make it home
Their names are inscribed into a wax tablet;
Some die
Some lose their souls
Some are born again—into darkness.
The destiny of each being
Is written in the stars
That are pasted onto the walls
Of the tunnel that is the dark forest.
Some say that at the end of the tunnel
There lives a beast; he thirsts only for the knowledge
That the lonesome travellers have acquired
In their quest to travel
The road less taken:
For these travellers believe they are wise
And that light comes after darkness
But there are always exceptions to the rule.
Sometimes there is not light
At the end of the tunnel—
But eternal darkness
And that is where those who choose
The dark path must go.
It is their destiny.
It is where all ends.
It is the finalé.

—Vruta Gupte.

(Gee, I never knew I could write dark poems--in both a literal and metaphorical sense.)

See you on the next post!  Cheers!  (As much as is possible after reading that poem.  Just kidding.)

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~ migration.

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