As I seek through the shadows,
I whisper, ‘Is there light within?’

When I dive into the water,
it composes a hymn of my chills;
its passionate waves climb me like a hill.
Is this anonymity part of my will,
longing to be a cadaver by such a kill?

Is there light within?

When I light a candle,
its yellow hypnosis swallows my sun;
then the guilt detains me at the point of a gun.
Is this the saga of daughters and sons,
forever lost, always on the run?

Is there light within?
When I cycle around,
unable to voice my young roar.
Does this contrast block me from a new door,
or it shuns the transfiguration of my core?

Is there light within?

When I sit in a restaurant,
my appetite contradicts the menu,
while my sight keeps denuding the venue.
Is myself hollering for rescue
to escape this somnambulant queue?

Is there light within?

When I play tennis,
the balls bounce back to my past,
dodging me whenever I didn't last.
Is it trying to give me a panoptic blast
so that I live on predictions like a fast?

Is there light within?

When I walk on a beachside,
the shells anchor me to the gravel,
leaving me scrabbling at a conscious level.
Is it to gesticulate a full stop to my travel
or push me to hide beneath rather than unravel?

Is there light within?

When I capture a photograph,
the shadows in it conceal my memory,

making me fade like I am not contemporary.
Is it to distort my story
and turn it into the worst existential allegory?

Is there light within?

When I go upstairs to my room,
the staircase starts to spiral me,
as if questioning, “Who is she?”
Then suddenly, I fall to my knee,
and a voice says, “Get up on the count of 1-2-3.”
Has this hallucination set me free,
or do I have to deliver it again as my plea?

Is there light within?

When I walk around my room,
the tiles identify themselves as chess blocks.
One minute, I'm a knight, hard as rock,
next, a pawn that starts to soak.
Does my territory want me to poke,
and in the end, where will I dock?

Is there light within?

When I pluck flowers,
thorns disallow them to be in my vase,
rejecting the possible imbibe and amass.

Further, I am accused of trespass.
On that note, I liaise with grass, exclaiming,
“Alas! Will I continue to lose my grasp?”

Is there light within?

When I navigate through stars,
the constellations hide from me.
I wonder, what if I flee to make me see?
Did mythological creatures ride them free,
or does my gaze lock their patterns with no key?

Is there light within?

When I cross the road,
the zebra crossing plays my distress like a piano.
It acts as added espresso in my Americano.
Little things around me are getting concentrated;
is this overwhelming to make me feel ill-treated?

Is there light within?

When I cook,
recipes entangle me in their loop
like the ice cream flavor
of which even kids don’t want an extra scoop.
What if this neglect turns me to a hot soup
as my ingredients lose their proportion to droop?

In the depths of despair, I find,
perhaps the light within is mine to define.

.    .    .