RONY PATRA Poems

I search for that something called an Identity
I search for the eternally dynamic being called 'me'

I search for that ever-elusive ray of Hope
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The sun is receding from the sky,
Which is now painted a deep crimson red
But the blood of bodies lying, left to die
Have filled this red sky with unease and dread
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There are so many things in life
That I wish to know about right now
For instance, why is there so much strife
Instead of worldly happiness, why is there only sorrow?
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The other day, I was dusting my rarely-cleaned room
Whose pathetic condition requires more than just a broom
I looked at all my memorabilia, trying to trace my life’s graph
When suddenly, I came across an old photograph
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It is the middle of May, and the parched earth
Induces people to pray for a much-needed dearth
Of ravages caused by the sun, and a little bit of rain
To calm their nerves, else they would turn insane
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'What has happened? What am I seeing?
Am I mad, or am I a nervous being
The world is swaying from one side to another
And this unnatural sight has put me in a spot of bother.'
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Among fallen hopes and broken dreams
Where happiness falls like concrete beams
Distances widen, lives collide
Sadness often doesn’t get a place to hide
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We are inhabitants of a fast, high-octane world
Which promises every possible comfort to all and sundry
But the brave new age which it has unfurled
Is rapidly destroying every tangible moral boundary
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There is a person, sometimes big, sometimes small
Who has a tendency to stay away from it all
When the rest of the proceedings are looked at, with wonder
This person is what everyone calls the quintessential Outsider
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As I set off to experience the unknown
Optimistic about my chances, in spite of being alone
Melancholy and sadness take me back to my past
And remind me of events that still leave me aghast
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