Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Not a machine, not yet

I am edging
What they call
The talk, the talk of a machine
Factual, grounded, emotionless
Simple, point-blank, rule based
Journey to a land of restful, dreamless sleep
Tranquil fatigue and jaded peace


A boy, restless, boyish, eager to move on
A girl, quiet, reflective, in an unbending linger
In moments, in pieces of time, in rooms with white colored walls
In brownish coffee shops, in their alternate worlds
She spoke of her brushes, her trysts with nature
And her constant dismay with people
He spoke in pictures, picturesque places
He spoke in patterns, steps, sequences
He wrote them down in passion, called them his art
She spoke of science, he never cared less
He spoke of a game, her eyes wandered for a window
As they moved away, they learned, they sought the same from life
They sought  dreams, creation, change
They sought new
They were no special,
Just two of those friendly young people,
You meet on the sidewalk
Ignore, maybe stare awhile, forget
A carpet of night and day, gently fell down
As they weaved it with their dreams, poles apart
They loved it, more than anything else, in a selfish guarded way