Myshkin

I read some lines you had written  somewhere(I shouldn’t have)
and somewhere in the misplaced lines
a continent of pain drowns in islands of sorrow
you become a boy of borrowed mishappenings
a door ajar, airborne towards a non existent light,
in between life, your self created turmoil, your will as transparent as your vice
I think of you thinking of yourself as Lyon, circumnavigating hellfire
and flashing streaks of momentary genius
in hard fried microwaved eggs
one after the other,
you hold bowls of sunny sides up, send me photographs of video games
you play, holding night in the devil’s workshop.
I sit, miles away enveloped in groping darkness
and, I wonder, how much madness is too much madness,
if my sadness oscillates between your mood swings
what is it to have freedom and to be free
in moments when I am thinking of you and perhaps, you are thinking of me.
Your ordinariness is not light
it's not the luminosity of Christ
it’s the tale of a forgotten child-
a child you wish to forget, but it does not leave you behind
You wrote the idiot made you cry (I shouldn’t have read that)
in that one line you opened almanacs of your grief
pain stained windows, filled with shades of gray and blue,
open and shut in the monsoon rain with a sound only the broken make
“And all of this, all this life abroad, and this Europe of yours is a fantasy…”
I feel the words sear through my heart
and as my fragile nerves make meaning of your heartbreaks
I find you clutching Myshkin in a tight embrace.
© Jaspreet Mann