Saturday, August 11, 2012


Sometime at the age,
Of under a decade,
Craving for little cases,
That snap open and close
To confine the many colors,
And pretty paraphernalia -
Bright hued, dainty boxes
Housing the stray beads,
Sequins, feathers
Collected from here,
Gathered from there!

Teens come in
Taking along with them,
Lemming for luxe sacs,
Bargain bags,
And all in-between.
With mirrors sewn on.
Handmade, handy,
Housing the many random things -
Hand sanitizers, Rosary beads,
Bindis, Bound note books,
Pens, Letters, abrupt stuff.

The soul slowly grows,
The tell tale signs of its aging,
Displayed in the disinterest,
Dislodged from little pleasures,
Aloof from pencil cases,
Hand sewn totes, colorful jholas.
Instead, it dwells
On thoughts of
Hauling all life's contents
Into the memory of the mind.
Away from physical spaces
That arrest tangible titbits,
Only wishing
Contentment and containment
Can come and release
The many ties to Maya.