I could be wading
in the effervescent joy of a Mozart concerto
or the tranquil beauty of Monet’s lilies, but
it’s never far.
Perhaps the next room?

It could be even as far as the moon
but it will travel at uncharted speed
and explode like ripe mangoes in the mouth –
The golden rivulets running down
the chin to stain white clothes.

I only have a few hints of its arrival.
I can feel it under my skin – It starts to numb.
I am only given a few hunches.
This ominous déjà vu.
This déjà vu.

Déjà vu.

I could be wading
in joy… (yet)
I still wear white again.



Hailing from the beautiful South Indian coastal state of Kerala, Feby Joseph is a spiritual vagabond who is still trying to figure it all out. At present all his formal education has landed him a job in a desert – in finance – so he works with numbers while words waltz around in his head. Some of his recent poems have appeared on Café Dissensun, Oratoria, and EntropyMag.