The Man on the Mirror


Drawing a carriage is never easy
Nor is the baggage, the overweight dreams
That stand by you, and makes little incursions
Towards a vivacity, you call happiness.

I was born to a middle class family in Sri Lanka
I started elocution at the tender age of 10 or 11
English was not fed to me as a staple
Only as an allied food that nourished the hope
Of making to America or some first world country
Some distant day.

And slowly I build up a world
Of lofty dreams, until I became so adrift
Of science and floating on a dead sea,
Lifeless, with no algal blooms or little fish
Under the surface. And slowly I gave life
To that sea, pitching and floating words,
For the wandering fishermen to catch

And now in this crossroad I stand
More poet than scientist, knowing that my blood
Is English and only sweat sculpts little journeys in science.
Blood will never run dry, it can only be killed
And that too will need nuclear capabilities,
To destroy what I have built with the slog
Of grey and white matter

And one day, on my gravestone
There will be no apple plants
Or Archimedean bird births
Or little marble domes with crazy scientific terms
Or a little flowering plant with my name on it.
I will have a little verse on my gravestone
Of who I was, and who I strived to be

And I will always remember
When I had no friends or family around,
Words stuck by me. Little threads of the third eye
That stitched the fabric of beauty
And laid it inside a crucible of dreams.
A man of no wealth richer than a mogul or tycoon
Transacting little words on a computer
To a treasure, money can never buy.

And the wordsmith in me
Will hopefully transcend his age and time
To become a sower of his craft, on rods and cones
Traversing interfaces, electrifying
Little patchwork neurons,
To a tapestry of synaptic bliss.

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