The Empty Room

Trees. Birds. Flooding showers.

Lakes. Rivers. Blooming flowers.

What makes?

Life. Death. Tangled vines

Love. Hate. Aging lines.

What makes?

Space. Time. Silent rhymes.

You. Me. The world sublime.

What makes?

What makes a room empty?

What makes a room?

What makes?

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Note: Written a few months back for one of the Serene Woods' Writers' Meets, this piece was lost in the deluge of unfinished, unpublished drafts in my computer and I only discovered it today. Although I'd leave the interpretation of this to my readers (as I do with all my works), I have but one thing to say. Read it not once, but twice. For there is more to it than meets the eye.

Rants against Stream of Consciousness*

Consciousness, consciousness, where do you stay?
'I stay in your mind, 'pon your thoughts I pray'
Consciousness, consciousness, why don't you die?
'Because if I die, then your thoughts shall fly'
Consciousness, consciousness, let them be free.
'Oh, no no no, that's impossible, you see'
Consciousness, consciousness, leave me alone
'Why of course, for a minute, here- get stoned'
Consciousness, consciousness, you're nothing but a sham.
'Muahaha! Write that in your Paper 7 exam.'**


*My exams begin from tomorrow, so something of this sort was anticipated.
** Paper 7 includes Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway. Nuff said.