My own ghost

Ghost stories always scared me.
It is no different now.
This substance-less, loveless existence,
This anonymity, this apathy,
This blankness, this goal-less-ness
Is scarier than all the ghost stories
That I had dreaded.
The ethereal mist
That hangs over the world-
This mist of ruthlessness,
Of the selfish, sex crazed, greedy thoughts-
That hovers menacingly over our world,
Is scarier than anything in the ghost books-
Scarier than the blood dripping axe
Scarier than the creaking doors
Scarier than the brooding menace
And the blood-lust
That you read about.
There are no doors
Marked with an exit sign here-
Nothing can be scarier
Than eternity.
It is frustrating to know, now,
That love matters,
That small things matter,
That smiles matter,
That children, and jokes, and laziness matters.
It is scary, not to be able to tell anyone,
That time is real, that it is cruel,
And that the scariest thing of all
Is loneliness.
I am scared of the ghost story
That is me;
There is no place to run
No way that you can scream-
There is no last chapter, no last scene,
This is not a dream that will end.
Every ghost tries, at least once,
Out of sheer desperation,
To communicate-
With the creaking doors,
And such other signals-
And tries to alert his loved ones,
That existence, and immortality and eternity
Are a curse;
And that only joy and love and faith
Are worth living for.
And the scariest knowlege of all is
That death does not complete its work,
And that we would never be able to tell
Our loved ones,
About the things that matter.

About Abhishek

I will let the blog speak for itself...or, at times, for me. View all posts by Abhishek

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