Finifugal

My opus is a maze.

A maze of designs and some notes.
A few high, some low.
Some tatters, a few letters,
scattered everywhere.
I try to put them in a pattern.
But then, art was never my forte.

I have my own world.
A world sprawled across the pages
that are mostly in my head.
A few slink out of my heart too.
The pages, they are black.
Black, velvety black, and shades of it
Then there is white. Pure or off.
No grey though. No colors too.

Their glare is blinding.

There are no numbers, just beginnings.
Neither on the pages nor in my soul.
No numbers between zero and ten that is,
except the obvious one and the scary ten.
I hover someplace in between.

A beginning has an end.That's what the rule
books say. A rule people never break.
Or so they claim. All of them around me.

Push, shove, scheme, ridicule and scream silently.
Promise that this is how it is meant to be,
That end,  "it marks another beginning" !!!

A beginning. An end.
Neatly arranged hackneyed banalities
and cliched truism,feel-good bromides
and platitudes in between.
My home is in the midpoint.
The cobwebs, they say, are my own creation. I , they say,
succumb to my own blows. "Go with the flow", "let it end"
"good things waiting to happen"," let go let go let go".

People slot me into straitjackets of their perceptions
I don't belong there. I am an accident.Unexpected, sudden.
Rules don't apply to me. 

Trust doesn't live in me.

Faith keeps breaking me.

Not even love can touch me.

I am a finifugal.
I fight to ward of the finale.

I refuse to walk up to the sinister end.
End. Period. Climax. Death.