My Illusions are no traps.
They are my bridges,
My Conveyances of Life.


When I am benighted by ignorance,
Or, coaxed into commotion –
When I stand in reverse,
And there is blackness around;
When every step convolutes
To amputate my stride.
When mergers become motley,
And I am held back
To quiver, and shake
On shaken grounds.


Somewhere, then, my Illusions take over –
As good senators,
To bail me out of my: Doubts.


When I am lowered to crawl.
And bludgeoned – my brisket!
Rattles my strife.
When a state of limbo mutes my soul,
And I have nowhere to start,
Or, finish a point,
When a star splinters, and the moon
Comes crashing down!
When the bouquet elopes with the wind,
And Spring grows nettles to bite.


Verily! Then, my Illusions form
A protective reef, a listening device –
To hear my reliable beliefs: Aloud.


Geeta Chhabra


From the book: An Indian Ode To The Emirates by Geeta Chhabra.


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