Dark clouds all over the city today.
It’s so perfect for her,
She chooses the particular club for the day,
On the top of the hill.
She likes the interior and the sitting,
The walls, all painted in black,
The scrappy plaster coming out of the edges,
Of the bricks that were laid so imperfectly, unfitting.
Yes, she has always liked the imperfections,
The unfinished furniture,
The rugged covers of the couches,
The broken lining of the coffee mug,
The torn corner of the menu board,
The slanted lines of the windows and the doors,
The wrongly placed carpet on the floor,
The patterned, torn shirt of the bartender with his blue hair.
Everything is so her, brimming with randomness.
She sometimes thinks,
The only contribution to the world,
She has made yet, is increasing its entropy,
Which she did out of her whimsical actions and ways.
Nobody will know, as she will never say,
She will never reveal her hidden secrets,
Her thoughts, her props, her figures of the game,
She has always followed her own path,
The path that follows through the dungeons,
Through the mystic lanes.
She takes the same place in the balcony,
Where she get to have the clouds around,
All dressed up in black,
She takes out the pack,
And lights the flame.
She has to manage with this petty matchbox today,
As she has lost her lighter,
She grabbed it up from the streets,
Where she walked earlier to get here.
She stills thinks why are they petrified,
When she walked down the lane,
Is it about the dark covering which she wore?
Or the layers of arts on her skin,
Or about her eyes,
Which encloses a void,
Searching for its own depths.
She puts this thought away,
Lighting up a new flame,
She flicks the stick away,
She finds some strange pleasure in that,
Lighting up the matches and riffling them away.
She feels as she is the one,
Who has the power, the control,
She can burn it all
Or stall it half way,
Picking another one, again and again,
Lighting and riffling.
Some matches go far, some lands up nearby.
Fire is her element.
She has always believed,
Randomness and fire,
Isn’t that a brilliant combination to have?
She smirks as she thinks.
The burning stick has the fire for a fraction of second,
But it burns it all away,
When she flips it through her fingers,
Sometimes it blows off,
Sometimes the stick flails.
Sometimes it lands unburnt,
Sometimes turns to black trails.
Fire and randomness again.
She completes a pack,
She can now feed on the smoke around her,
The smoke she has liberated,
With some remains,
Which the weather has added in rage.
She watches her wrist,
It’s time for the game.
The clouds have cleared her view,
The thunders and lightening,
She can hear them fading far,
Fire and randomness.
In fraction of seconds,
Just like the riffling of the lit stick,
She smiles now,
As what she sees around are all fiery rumbles.
Fire and randomness.
She has done it all again.