A path of blinding darkness beckons,
I walk with shadows of brightness tailing.
Sight long curtailed by curtains of arrogance,
And having lost my way, I trod down,
This corridor of doors.
Doors opening into my past,
Holes in the fabric of time.
Offering a peek to the sneaking voices,
I try to patch up the mistakes of the past.
To make peace with the mountains drowned,
And the seas drained, by wells of tears.
For these are the scenes the doors reveal,
Blasts into a chequered past.
Doors opening to more closed corridors
With more doors opening from them.
The past lies, waiting as an open labyrinth.
Recollections of rebuke, falls and follies,
Arrest us as pictures in motion, behind curtains.
No mistaken Minotaurs to slay, in this labyrinth.
The drama unfolds with a perpetual wait,
For, one never knows, what.
No gallant Godots to guide us,
Just one pointless journey, meandering right, left and straight.
Until all that remains is a delusion called memory.
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