Shangri-La

My hand trembles

When I wake up to a sordid dream

And stinking morning breath

Of a fumbling lover,

Making her way through the mess

That my mind is.

I gently caress her face

Before announcing sternly

That I am many things but myself.

Between a beaming smile

And the rush of blood to my head

Meanders a set of pointy fingers,

Like a river

Charting its course across a rugged terrain,

Birthing a lore at every inflection.

I remind myself

In wistful melody,

Many things that the river carries

Between eyes opening dreamily,

And shutting,

Permanently,

With a muddied mind

I remind myself, 

That I am all things by myself,

And announce blearily,

I am many things but Poetry.

I am Kashmir.