Backstage

In my wildest imagination, away from all rhyme or reason,
I weave my realm, unbridled and free, craving for the unfelt and extreme, by all standards but my own.
I drift past the obvious, and I leap beyond the stage and its ugly frown, its gray and brown.
My tune is forever.
Eager to be reshaped a million times wrapped in the unknown.
Let me flee, only for thee, unsure of destiny, and assured of mystery.
The moment arrives to embrace what I hold dear to me in my moments of solitude and awakening, and in my moments of introspection.
Like a truant, I feel free of any convention for my soul purges me of all the strings of attachment and sets me up for only pure flirtation.
I love being wicked in the rain and the scent of the wet grass beneath me, lost in the mystery of that mischievous smile that tickles me, invites me, but never promises me.
The sense of emptiness and fulfillment reigns supreme and my senses are full to the brim.
I live in the south breeze to playfully ruffle your shiny tress.
I live in the warmest kiss that wets the lips of your lovely face.
I serenade you with the sweetest tune I know in the crimson afterglow, in the slim hope that your affection might follow.
I toy with the spreading wave of colors left behind by your sublime departure, as I intertwine my emotions with the kaleidoscope of nature.
You return with a veil, again, and I feel a deep sense of longing with all the passion I possess at this divine height.
You turn me and toss me aimlessly with bitter sweet cruelty as I juxtapose you with the sights and sounds of a starry night.
I hold you, as the star holds her fleeting light, and dance with you as the sunflowers do with the sun, cheek to cheek in flickering candle light, only to be one.
Your glossy red lips, reminds me of my long-lost rain-drenched red rose and strips me of the last vestiges of any reason.
This is my page, this is my stage.
Oh, the strong wind returns, window closes, the page turns, a flower vase drops and breaks into pieces to divulge what I dare not hear.
Do I have to wear my face, to be a pretender, and to cease to be a weaver?
Do you have to turn the page to return my bondage?
The stage has changed but I am expected to play roles to their satisfaction. 
I now have defined dreams and follow the set path to their benediction.
Another sun sets, another story ends in applause.
The nest is secure and warm, and the resolve is solid and firm.
Why am I then so hollow inside and feel the urge to unwind to weave a new one?
I scurry to gather the sand to build the castle again, any which way I can. 
With the fear of a deer I reach behind the curtain.
I segue into a deep coma to bid goodbye to all the goals I have, while I keep my eyes still wide open. 
Fly me home, and take me to the memory lane where I act insane.
That's my stage, that's my page.

Arif Shahjahan is an IT professional currently working in the United States.