HUMORLESS

Some days are singularly glum
Routine goes awry-mood is sullen and numb
The sun is too harsh or too morose
Rain, either lashes or muddies the roads

The draughts are no longer wafts of fragrance
The grass is not satin but tufts of garbage
The crows' cacophony cowers cuckoo's conceit
The owls sit pretty where peacocks should preen

Pretty scenes no longer bind eyes or the heart
Melancholy peeps out of well-tuned concerts
Debility strikes the youth; bitterness is the ultimate taste
Buddha while renouncing the world, must have been similarly depressed


So, am I another Buddha in making?
Or just depressed that needs convassing?
Yes, it is the age of incredulous
Even Buddha will not be given his status

He will be labeled melancholic, chronically depressed
And shunted into a mental hospital-to simply degenerate
The absurdity of the thought hits me all of a sudden
Humor raises hope; I still may get cured of depression.

~Jayanti Sinha~

More Poems By Jayanti

Kavitanjali

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