It is hard to stay with oneself,

To place death in the pages of a diary

With the curvy Ds and Ts

With perfect alignment

Between the two ruled lines,

It is hard!

It is so strenuous to not to think,

then placing your thoughts – placing your wild, stretching and cumbersome thoughts- 

Into a neat, perfect box

And cover it with a shiny blue gift wrap

With moon and stars,

And then rope it with the ribbon 

That she used to tie her hair with.

Then put a name plate and 

Keep it under the Christmas tree

For anyone and everyone.

It is so strenuous

And meaningless.

And people call it art.

And the box lies there

With both resilience and pity

Some receive it with awe,

While some would just discard.

Sometimes the entrails of the box

Would look enticing

Sometimes they won’t rhyme at all.

That scattered composition of beauty and blemish would not be for all.

I don’t believe in any [propitious] future

And I was never kind to the past

But, whenever and if you come across

This box, and I don’t care

Wherever and whosoever you are.

I don’t care if you are indifferent to it

Or you find it attractive, hate it, crush it, 

Burn it, drown it, kill it, love it or tear it apart.

But I implore you to just keep the ribbon safe

Just tie it to the tree, or to a wishing bell

Just cherish it is all I ask.

Because it was never mine to begin with,

And so, borrowed it will stay till last.

The only significant thing

In this most meaningless diligence called art.

Or maybe it is not,

maybe this very line is the ribbon

and I’m tying the box as I write this off.