The Catch22 Moans Poem by Pinaki Dewan

What if all that you see is just a wrinkle in the crust?
You run far away from home, run back home, trying to find someone to trust,
And you see your home is dreary and the windows are caught in rust;
The quivering festoon matches your heartbeat soon, you torture an empty spoon,
But nothing can quench your ballooning hunger now, not even the air, the moon:
So, you quickly find from the basement a bag of stones, and let out as loud as you can the catch22 moans.

The ghost of the broken branch is frightened sick, like a flame-bereft wick,
All the while carrying a mirror of lies, supporting his skeletal body with a stick;
Where can one get contentment, asks he before hitting his head with a brick,
And falls from the thick crud of darkness, drops of incomprehensible light, like blood,
And the heavy skull collapses with a thud, feels like a bomb, turns out a dud,
And the shrieks of the night-bird, like the catch22 moans, are never heard.

The morning comes as if it is the last judgment of all melancholy-
There are curses in the rivers and abuses in the alleys, yet it acts like the town is very holy;
Where is the victim, where is the criminal, who's in charge of this folly?
I walk to the shore, expecting at least a furor,
But there's no one anymore to cause an uproar:
In the sad strains of the briny waves that flow, traces of the catch22 moans echo.

Dusk arrives like a newly-wed bride married against her will:
Against the trembling waters of the river, exceedingly still;
Perhaps there never will be a return, perhaps there will,
But will she act against her pain?
I am all drenched in the false rain, the skeleton destitute of even a stain,
What is there to gain from justice other than another bane?
If only we could let go of the disdain, we could finally attain
The directions to an eternity where the catch22 moans roam free.
What if all that we see is just a wrinkle in her beauty?