Mediocrity

As the three tabs of chrome spin anti-clockwise

I notice my pinched lips

Resolute against this unholy action of my laptop:

Siphoning my lifeline post-laziness.

First I noticed the paralysed scroll bars,

Unlit and stone cold. Frozen.

Then it was those tantalising red flags of my periphery

That just would not present themselves

They still don’t.

And it must suffice lest I lose my mind.

While private universes battle out their kettle drums

And Natraj his one dhum of the cosmic drum of dance,

 I am still watching time go anti-clockwise.

A part of me just says it is simply not fair.

I am disgusted by my superficiality.

Guyamas Sonora rings in my waxed ears

Fairly returning the livid memory of this evening,

This reality since May of stranded love.

The electric violin is pitiful, I want to cry for it,

But the trumpet cradles us both into redemption.

I talked to B this evening about it,

Am I really attached I protested.

Having just given my insights on pure love,

And the lack of expectation I have in it.

The music share, the intermittent messaging is enough,

But I am attached to sharing my world with him.

I pity how I have become this stringed afterthought.

It is pure mediocrity where I live

Stranded in this world

Strapped in May, this September.

Unlit and stone cold. Frozen.