The Drive Poem by Pinaki Dewan

I choked at our shore,
Since then, the night has failed to console me, with its stars immuring my imagination and roads beckoning me to mollify into a puddle that an adult avoids once and a child jumps on twice splintering it into the manifold that is the quintessence of all. I couldn't even become a pebble.
Since then, the drafts have blown against me moulding me into a sculpture whose pith I cannot identify. When was I last myself?
Since then, the city has smothered every window with smoke that it cannot confine, has sheltered every poet with a loneliness and longing that only it can offer. I have seen lights that survive entire nights only to die at dawn.
Since then, thought has never succumbed to sorrow, clarity has never mated with simplicity, connection has never suffused with comprehension. I have had a drive to write, not mere diversion.
Since then, love has seemed but an antiseptic to apply on a fresh wound and to be done away with it as soon as it heals. The longer the odour, the worse it gets. Wounds love inflicting themselves on those who do not care, almost as zealously as a human. I wish I was a stab.
Since then, happiness has taken the shape of a worm that gets devoured every morning by the earliest bird. I have always been a late riser.
Since then, I haven't really seen the world as something more special than some block of wood that you burn to keep yourself warm as long as the fire smolders and you still require the heat. After a while, I might be okay with Ice Age too.