You say you’ve lost the plot And there’s no way back. Every bridge behind you burnt.

But ours is a passage Frozen & heavy. Burdened with memories.

Ours, A bridge that shall never burn.

I love you as a friend, I long for you as a lover. But you need space, While I need time. And in between, There is distance.

Tasks begin with scattered bits, No shape nor intent. Just the remnants of an abstract notion.

Stumbling amongst the binary, A certain order emerges from the chaos. Bits steadily merge to pieces, Arbitrary threads expressed through time.

Until uncertainty creeps in through the branches. Interrupting flows and disrupting cues, Cascading dissonance and disconnect.

This too is a part of the process. Withdrawing; resting and resetting. Till edges crystallise to focus, Revealing what is and what can be.

Then render the tacit arrangements Until the threads become rope And all the pieces become parts And all the parts become the sum Of the whole– the thrill of the end. Then begin again.

Fingers drumming on keyboards And planes descending on the tarmac. Ocean waves fumbling to the shore And people mingling as they do. Trees swaying in the wind And rain tapping on windows.

Amongst the oddities and the ordinary, Lies a beautiful calm.

Folds in our hands, Folds in our minds, Folds in our hearts, Creases tempered by time and actions.

These memories recede As quietly as they surface. Faint traces of distant moments Tinged with bitterness and sweet mirth.

Memories of shared company, Of laughter and togetherness. As companions imprint on each other Trinkets of words, actions and kinship. Until insecurities engulf their intentions in fire, And all the fragile trinkets lay scorched in dust.

Sometimes our people slowly disappear, As wax fades from a burning candle. And all that's left is an empty space Full of singed memories. But there is sapience here amongst the quiet. That all good things come to pass And what once was, was truly good.

People fade, memories remain.

The lines that are dots, The beginning of us and others.

The lines that are drawn, We dare not cross those borders.

The lines that are smudged, With hesitation and commiserations.

The lines that are erased, As we carry on after our actions.

The Machine is meddlesome Tugging at the heartstrings of masses Through illusory promises of glory and grandeur. And they sway, These victims of gravity.

And they fall. Everyone falls, why wouldn’t they? The Machine’s orchestra weaves a mesmerising tune And I just wish they’d stop dancing, To look at what remains behind.

The few that are often forgotten. Unwanted specks in a carpet full of dust The whimper in a rowdy crowd Because they wouldn’t or couldn’t Accept the Machine’s construct.

Such is the consequence When the journey’s reward Matters more than the trek ever could. Values are vanity, Living is swimming upstream And the rest can drown.

I refuse to play a part in the Machine’s theatre. I’d like to believe, We can live by our own trinkets and devices But my weary eyes have seen enough to know better. All I want is to howl at the daylight’s moon And sleep with a smile on my face.