Sunday, May 1, 2011

A Question Unanswered

Obliterate and destroy my mind.
It is only a faction of anyone's understanding.
No identity and no revelation in form.
No tomes to speak of and nothing to realize it.

Who am I but another soul in this
Completely misguided universe called home.
Nothing in comparison to any other.
Yet to begin would require a journey through the dark.

The dark void of the beginning holds all secrets.
Why I am here, what I do and why I survive.
Answers can never be sought in this thread amongst many.
The question remains endlessly intriguing and always eluding.

I have not seen the future and wish not to either.
But delusions besot me now and then and hold me to waver.
I never understand the reasons of my existence
Or even those to be brought into this chaos.

The question remains and will stay unrequited.
Who I am is just a figment of my own making.
As I linger in the dark with my mind conceiving.
As I stand alone in the world with my heart pounding.


Miss D said...

I beyond love this poem!
All those weird moments of staring at the sky, clueless, suddenly make sense.

Why are we bestowed with such thoughts that have nothing to do with the general cycle of life because of which we are sustaining existence in the first place?

Deepika Vasudeva said...

some questions are better left unanswered.. maybe after answering they won't mean that much..
i find it intriguing to have this little uncertainty in life..
good work :)

Blasphemous Aesthete said...

To sum up and that too in borrowed words

I'm just a stranger in a strange land.

Blasphemous Aesthete

Anonymous said...

Who am I?
I remember when I was younger...we were told in school to strip off all the marks of our identity from our minds - name, parents' name, house, etc - and then asked "Now tell me, who are you?"
And none of us could answer.
It's a wonderful question, and I remember how I always loved to slowly remove all the marks of my identity and try to find an answer to the question.

Lovely poem D2 :)

Sayak Shome said...

Inscribed in a rage,
The ink blots drawing an image, profound;
On the dust laden page,
Which, when turned makes a cracking sound-
Of eclipsed existence.

Defiant Princess said...

love the poem! can I borrow a line if you dont mind?
"Who I am is just a figment of my own making"

Anonymous said...


welcome share your poetry with us.
you rock!

D2 said...

@Enchanta : We are bestowed with such thoughts so that the better ones of us can hopefully realise what our life's purpose is. Then we can do something substantial with it.

D2 said...

@Deepika : Maybe you're right. If we knew what our lives' meant to the world, how significant they were, then we would only negate their progress for the same.

@Blasphemous Aesthete : Well said! :D

D2 said...

@Antara : Thanks a lot. :)
Yeah, it's always intriguing to think about this question time and again. We may never get an answer but we always get a thought that says, "I'm getting there."

D2 said...

@Sayak :
The existence isn't eclipsed.
Only obscured by the shadows.
That lie above our eyes.
And not above our souls.

D2 said...

@Jingle : Thanks a lot. I certainly will. :)

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