Barely 🪾

Till now,

the world has had the charm

of a staged photograph 

pretty enough,

but everyone blinking.

Nothing rattles me,

not even days

that march around

acting essential.

(They rehearse importance;

the performance never lands.)

I’ve grown comfortable

in the quiet 

the only audience

that doesn’t mistake my stillness

for something meaningful.

And yes,

even the sea tries its luck 

forever posing as calm,

though it can’t go five minutes

without throwing a tantrum

at the shore.

Then there’s me,

a blanket stripped of its warmth,

still expected

to console the room.

But the chill finds me anyway,

dragging me along

with all the enthusiasm

of an overdue bill.

It collects

from every corner

I happen to exist in 

life demanding its tax

with impeccable timing