It’s peculiar how, as I grow in time,
It is becoming easier, to smile at chaos,
To smile at negative clanging,
Bent, on bashing my conscience into submission.
My spirit seems to have learnt,
The clever art, of deflecting these waves,
Diminishing the depth of their stings, while,
Refusing, to melt into a helpless mess
Against their intellectual soldering-irons.
Is my heart finally hardening into cold rock?
Rock that people who grow in time,
Are wont to grow an armour of?
Or have I somehow discovered,
A wellspring of yet unfamiliar patience?
My excursion away from anger
Drives me through amusement,
Wonder, and finally to a sense,
Of peaceful indifference,
Outside my very own existence.
But I still feel,
Within my hardening heart,
A ball of heat,
Convulsing each time, it hears
The hammering of unkind words,
Mining, for my most fragile insecurities.
And I return from my reverie,
With a hard thud.
Excursionists after all,
Must always return.