My Blue Bare Bedroom Wall

[FOREWORD: People, I know I'm getting progressively repetitive with my newest poem, and I sincerely apologize for such lack of imagination. Having said that, however, I feel it safe that this assures a level of consistency to my work, a certain 'type' of writing style that, I hope, will define me. So while I have this acerbic realization of the amount of recurring themes in my poem, there is still a silver lining. I'd just like to thank you for all the support and appreciation, and my respects to my elders, who frequent this blog and find time out to comment. To work, now then, misters and missies!] 

The blank blue wall that overlooks,

Is but a mirror to me.

Reflects it not my face, my skin,

In it my heart, I see.

Scatters it not just blue figments,

Of light hither and thither,

But malice and nefarious intent,

Has it to offer sufficient.

Has it been rightly said by one,

‘An idle mind is the Devil’s workshop’,

The blue blank wall personifies,

This adage in its stark blankness.

They tell me not to drown myself,

Into deep chasms of indulgence,

For the drowsy eyes can’t differentiate,

An empty pond from a brimming rivulet.

What’s better than the blue blank wall, I say,

Is a paan-smeared, red-blotted partition,

That stands with smugness, head held high,

At least has a view, an independent cry.

So unlike my bare bedroom wall,

That stares at me expressionlessly,

And waits and broods so silently,

With eyes on me, and thoughts elsewhere.

Inaction breeds where boldness stops,

Imagination suffers while stagnation tops,

Is but a mirror to my soul,

My blank blue bare azure wall.

-Bharat M.