We are wrestling against Stygian tides
This agony is yours too,
Not just mine.
I see you see me with impassive eyes;
Such smothering obligations,
Your smothered sighs…
It makes me want to weep
To see us drown in this impasse.
The rocks tire of turning,
The ravens grow hoarse, screaming
You are not my mother;
And I, a graceless archer, live
By slaughtering birds at night,
And burying corpses by day.
Laughter floats like a mirage
Hovering above us like doves.
You say
I hate you.
But I hate myself more.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
I woke up to a knotted feeling in my chest. I call it the feeling of smelling rain in the air. To my left, a man sleeps curled under the blanket, and beyond him, morning opens its eyes behind the curtains. The heaviness in my chest is an accumulation of many years. Like Sam and Dean’s memory flashes of Hell, it visits me as a reminder of monsoon bursts, evening walks, prolonged… death throes, and rain. It always passes soon enough. They were never much for lingering. And so I, feeling bottled up and inadequate, open my laptop to cry.
So long as the ghosts of the years survive the sea of change, so long shall the will to live return, again and again. For to be able to hold such pain and joy within a single, humble being is a miracle as spectacular as the sun shattering awake against the mountains. And it is the desire, nay, the hunger, to tear one’s self asunder in search of the holy impact that shall drive man to dream. To feel. To hope.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
Prologue
Flashes of a luminous glow
Swims like a Borealis across the sky.
The cold compelling breeze
Soothes my clammy skin.
A quiet rumbling,
Like the growl of angry hell hounds,
Anticipates the coming
Storm
The sky unleashes electric snakes
As the wind rips through houses and trees.
Sweeping rain impinges upon the earth,
Scrubbing the night clean
To claps of deafening thunder.
I stand, insignificant as a leaf,
And watch in awe
Of Divinity
Even as temple bells are chiming,
God has long left the altar to take a breath;
And in the wake of this night's monster
All is silent and dead.
It is strange
How such destruction calms my soul
And makes a hard atheist like me,
Hope.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 5:22 AM UTC
The sky has turned a bluish grey.
I hear the voices of the city -
Words, music, traffic, train,
And shrill laughter floating in the lane.
The bells have begun to ring;
An old woman
Crouching in a corner of her terrace
Blows the conch thrice.
A white cat ambling by the road
***** its head to listen,
But deeming the prayers and noise the same
Continues in its search for game.
On a fifth floor balcony, a girl watches
The silhouettes of birds flying back home.
She has her own music,
The kind that shuts you out and sets you free.
Temporarily.
A train whistles in the distance
Carrying lives afar and beyond.
The evening grows dark, the moon rises,
The wind lulls and blows;
And life goes on…
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
The cottage is old and the garden trees have overgrown,
The long missed smells of mother’s food…
Oh, what joy to eventually come home!
Shrill morning breaks to the call of crows
As the sun rises from behind prison walls.
A reminder yet again, Light alights in sleeping hours,
Daylight brings hell, the unvoiced tortured wails
Which cry out for the Light.
But it plays tantalizing games at night
And leaves the mornings in the hand of the jailor.
No friend, no foe, no merchant nor sailor
Will ever come to see…
We’re alone in our six square feet cells
Us, and the haunting drum roll of the surrounding sea.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC