Some day they will rise again

Thoughts spring up and swirl
Triggering a chain
Proliferating inside
Causing chaos and clutter

They knock with fervor
To break free
From the locked brainbox
Waiting to take form

Restless and jittery
Desperate to breathe
They begin to thrust and stomp
To make themselves heard

Suddenly light enters
From the luminescence
Of the mighty pen
Bringing hope and solace

But as they tread the path
To become one with ink
They are forced to halt
By an enormous block

Dejected and defeated
They trace back their steps
Returning to the space
From where they stemmed

They curl up and surrender
Strewn all over
Some finding their place
In nooks and corners

Some day they will rise again
Some day they will fight again
Some day they will bleed
As words from the mighty pen

Author’s Note: The second wave of COVID hit like a thunderbolt. I felt as if sand was slipping from my hands, and I would soon be left empty, alone and clueless. Though I have been able to save myself so far from the deadly virus, it gripped my loved ones – several of them. Some left me forever. Some are out of the woods, but still reeling under the impact of the disease.

While things may be looking brighter now, we know that there will be no going back to pre-covid. Some changes in all of us would be permanent – whether obvious or subtle. Out of all that I lost was also my capability to play with words like they were my own. They are now stuck somewhere in between. I don’t know where. I know they are waiting to find release but I can’t find my key to open the lock. This poem reflects my own situation, and I write it with a hope to bleed my thoughts as words from the mighty pen some day.

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