Moss

Mine is the oldest room of the house,
It has come to smell of an age now.
In the back wall, years of seepage
Seems to have been arrested in time;
Covered with season upon season of moss.
Blue green patches here and there
Give way to slivers of faded beige paint.
For the past few minutes, off my work
My eyes have been held by these
Seemingly formless stains.

A bounding rabbit here,
Breezy boughs of the banyan there.
A corner appears to be a green Kashmir
While a camel trudged tired along the floor.
As if that verdant moss had painted
Her entire imagination on that old back wall.
It’s unlikely that the moss is aware of this,
Perhaps she did it all instinctively.
It’s in her nature after all, to trail moisture
And keep growing with it.

For a moment though, imagine
What if she too is aware, sentient
Breathes like we do, wonders like we do,
Emotes just like us, imagines just like us.
Perhaps like a little child- innocent, unbridled,
Speaking her mind, doing as she feels.
Such fun it must be to shape one’s fantasies
Just as pleased, sans any inhibitions,
Unhesitant, express one’s inner being
For everyone to see;
No shame, no restrictions nor any fear;
Living life only on one’s own terms.
As if all world’s a stage, and one’s playing
One’s best part, with such passion and immersion,
Unaware of everything but that moment with the self,
Beyond any applause or critique.

How I wish
To be just like that moss,
With a back wall of my own,
Splashed with the soaring hues of
My unshackled spirits.