I often think...

I often think
A lot; not much at times
Still like the lonely bench
On a promenade
Waves lashing over the reclaimed
Land; under the feet of strangers
Making passages of my story
A chapter of silence often,
Memories like the permanent crease
On an earmarked page
Of my life's book
Filled with words
Of banality, ennui, restless
Nights; and days filled with emptiness
Nerve wrecking pauses.
I often walk, or jog these thoughts
To lose them
Move without a map; lose them at a corner
Of an unmarked lane; a shop selling
Trinkets from someone's past
Pawned for another
These buyers unaware.
I sit looking at the face;
Of a jagged valley crisscrossing
 The cracked mirror
Reflection distorted, million pieces
For a path that may be mine A plan.
To reach there
Following with the finger tips
Blinking. Harsh light from a neon bulb
blurring the scars of time.
Things are incomplete
Unclimaxed; without an end to every evening
Maybe if I couldn't think at all.