The Ghost Town
As the wheels of the carriage rolled by,
red dust disturbed,
vision hazy and unclear,
a face looked out of the carriage window
to stare at what remained
of a once beautiful and bubbling city.

No stray cats or dogs or rats
or children playing on the streets.
No happy sounds of laughter there
or old men remembering days of their youth.
Now the town lies gloriously desolate,
forever deprived of its former glory.

No longer are shops open to the public
neither are markets functioning efficiently.
Streets are now deserted roads,
once beautiful homes decorated by dust.
Their walls adorned by climbing plants,
spider webs providing makeshift curtains.

Even the sun shines with blazing fierceness,
making one wonder if she's angry.
She's had no choice but to shine and stare
at the atrocities carried out by men.
For thousand of years she's looked and shone
a sorry and powerless unwilling witness.

At night silence reigns like a king,
no one is home, that much is obvious.
Only eerie sounds are heard,
of doors creaking on loose hinges.
Nobody bothers to close them up,
it seemed their occupants left in a hurry.

Night is feared like a dreaded disease,
fear can be tasted in the mouth like bile.
Walking is now short unsure steps
with an occasional glance behind the shoulder.
What remains of my beautiful city
are deserted streets and empty homes...

The world had so much to tell
but very little time to spare.
She searched for what to do
and decided to write it down in books.

There are more treasures to be found in books
than all the treasures stashed up by pirates...
-Walt Disney

Today I went through my forgotten junk box
Looking for nothing in particular
Old papers, toys, books and frames
Trophies, memories both happy and sad

Well, there I was thumbing through them all
Surrounded by dust and spiderwebs
A useless chore I thought to myself
I decided to find something better to do.

Then I saw it under some books
Edges frayed and eaten by age.
I snatched it up and dusted away
Every ounce of dust and dirt on it.

My portrait held the picture of her
Her radiant looks and golden smile
I stared and felt I had gone back in time
To behold a beauty, God's own Monalisa.

A scarf on her head to keep away dust
Majestic eyes outlined by kohl.
Her lips were parted in a playful smile
Legs crossed, arms folded while she sat on a
rock.

Behind her the hills rose majestically
Beneath her the flowers formed a carpet of
colours
Above her the sky was a crystal blue
Even nature was trying to give her best.

That radiant smile that tugged at her lips
Those royal eyes that gazed at me
Those looks, that smile was all I could see
A heart of gold I'm sure she had too.

My newly found treasure thoroughly dusted
I felt like a pirate with a box of treasures
Indeed a treasure I had found
For the woman in the picture is my mother..

I wonder what you'll remember me for..
the sarcastic twist of my mouth or
the mischievious gleam in my eyes.

I wonder what you think of me.
A bundle of cruel surprises or
a woman who skipped growing up.

I wonder what you see me as.
A friend, foe or sweetheart.
Whatever you choose, remember me.

Heaven looks on as love continues to woo hate
Will it their suffering alleviate?
Who teaches love what door to knock on
And who answers the door when terror on the night's wing is borne?
When you first met, everything seemed to
make love to your five senses
The taste, sight, feel, voice and smell of
everything around your beloved seemed
to caresss the very core of your being and without wanting to
you found yourself drawn to this creature whose existence you
Had no prior knowledge of.

And so like Adam you went to sleep
But you couldn't sleep long enough to
Allow Him fashion a gift for you out of you.
You were restless, your garden lay fallow, untended to and deserted.
Since proverbs31 was never a criteria for your selection
love you said was like designer clothing and since she was no Victoria secrets
This package you intended to present to yourself openly.
And so you became the giver and the receiver
Leaving no room for a blessing to find expression.
For your kisses were presented to her without a hallelujah.

And when she accepted them she doubted the authenticity
But who cared anyway? It was the age of fairytale marriages.
Love! Yes love was sufficient to keep.
But didn't we all think so until Eve ate the apple?
Still , the marriage must hold for all have been invited.
After all, we'll learn later...google.
And so we all ate and wished the couple a "happy life"
Becoming partakers of a lifetime of regret
How awful or was it? The wine we drank tasted happy
and the music was sweet.

Now the wedding is over and he knows
That the devil also wears prada.
Chained to a lifetime of regrets and loveless affiliation
How did the marriage he dreamt of become the marriage he cursed?
She looked at him and tossed the pen to him.
The divorce papers were ready to be signed the lawyer told them.
But before the pen kissed the sheet they awoke with a start.
They had fallen asleep in the marriage counselor's couch..
A glimpse of the future was enough to make a decision...the marriage was called off
And back to the garden they went to learn how the first marriage began.

A tiny mound of flesh, as harmless as the sparrow's egg
forged out of love or lust
the deed was done and so I came to be.
In my pulsing cocoon I lay
an unknown visitor devoid of sight, flight or fight.
Soon my cocoon of shelter will change in readiness for my arrival
and I am looking forward to my birthday
as with ecstasy I long to gaze upon the faces
of those whose ***** I was forged out of.

I hear voices and a gruff voice says "stigma"
I wonder if it is my mother's name or my fathers'.
Too many voices but it seems we are going to see the doctor.
My infantile mind says that must be my father's name
but  why does Stigma and Doctor seem to me an unusual combination?
Though I can't feel, each part of me fears this trip.
Even though I am yet to meet these strangers I hear
My little feet try to break the barrier between my world and theirs
and yet my hands stay folded unwilling to stretch out and help.

I was forcefully ripped and torn apart
hacked to pieces by one whose honorable name
is engraved on a metal plate somewhere on a hospital door
In my prime, gone before my time
bud in flame, nipped in society's name
A genius waiting to be unveiled turned voice of an aborted future.
The deed that made me ashen cold now lies somewhere in a plastic bin,
sent to a distant land by the hands of those who forged me
never to return from my errand.

My passing was celebrated with two cups of tea
and a smile of congratulation from Doctor to Stigma.
Before my ears were gone, I heard them call me fetus and
wish me a happy birthday.
My name is Fetus, I am sixteen weeks old...
How soon they forget me, their nameless, faceless, lifeless child.
But a voice says to me, can a woman forget her ******* child
that she should not have compassion on the child of her womb?
Yes, they may forget, yet will I not forget you.