Memoirs of innocent artifice

Pic: Ankita Shreeram

From a dusty drawer, the ghost of a scared child peeps

From another, a stoic teenager

The child has scrawled a Wordsworth quote

Sitting pretty on feigned adulthood's moat

Heartfelt essays now bear the dust of lies

Of a pretence in half-hearted disguise

Memoirs of innocent artifice

In a blue jewelled box, a seashell lurks

A piece of joy, locked away for posterity

Un-caged, the memory flies

Loosening its grip on a heart that sighs

For all its inhabitants, condemned to be temporary

Time has left arrogant stains on the creatures of my past

Kept alive like bloodless vampires

Staring at me dolefully

Why have I not spared a single thought for them in all these years?

Never held them to my bosom

Or fed them with my lusty tears?

Erasers, mechanical pencils, dog-eared notebooks and glittering cards

A child's possessions

But childhood is no more than a fleeting memory

Devoid of sensation, of smell, of touch or sound

Childhood would be a fancy bed-time story

If not for these accusing diaries - hard-bound

I save some from the ogling bin

But none of them matters to me

Not really

Nothing feels real except the chiming of the clock

And sometimes, not even that

Some relics I wrestle with, like this delegate card

My hand hovers, and is pulled back by my pleading, bleeding heart

Like a husband held back by an emotional wife

The husband succumbs, the card returns

To the Pandora's box that is my nostalgia.