‘Once upon a time’ and ‘Many years ago’;
I begin with an idle thinkers’ reminisce-
A past, flowing into the future,
As a waterfall cascades down the valley;
I am delicately delivered,
Intricately fed into the senses of a curious listener-
I am words, sometimes arranged into a ballad,
Sometimes haphazard and tragic;

I’m known by speech and the word of mouth,
My identity laced into the syllables that people whisper,
And sometimes it slips into the conversation out of the blue;
I wonder and wonder,
As I find myself moulded into verses that don’t rhyme,
I begin to question the veracity of my existence,
Dubious as I am, I find-
myself compiled in wrinkled volumes of pale history books,
Sometimes constructively reconstructed, from my toe up to my hood.
Fabled into gossips, garnishing lunch and dinner,
My world reduced into words- sometimes a saint, other times a sinner.

I find bits of me scattered around in peoples’ lives, bigger stories,
But not a minute passes,
When I don’t loath or despise,
The shallowness of perception
As my depth is undermined.

Unknown and unfortunately misunderstood,
My story carries on and on-
Masked by words that fail to define,
Who, what and why I am,
Slowly ageing and spent away by time.

Alas, I lie untouched:
Abysmal, surrounded by darkness-
Alone, having become
the perfect manifestation of what they’d thought of me,
My words are fiction and so am I,
And this,
this is my story.

Published by Priya Ratti