It is like watching a plane land
while you're in it,
by the wings,
seeing the end drawing close
and feeling the ... feeling,
in the pit of your stomach
in the edge of your toes
and you clench,
well, everywhere,
bracing yourself
(as if that'll help)
for a rough landing
that'll shake you,
startle you,
but what you really fear
is what comes after the jolt,
for it is momentary,
sometimes absent
(when artfully done)
but sometimes
the jolt only begins
the turn for things
to go worse
and go wrong
and for the ground
to slide from beneath you
and for the plane
to slide and fall...

It is like watching a plane land.

I tumbled down a hole,
and found a barren land
ridden in a mist,
so thick,
I can't see my stretched hand.

There is no sound,
but that of my wary feet
trying so hard to find steady ground
while I step over debris,
so jagged,
I can't stop my ankle from turning wrong

The sky looks pale,
almost uncaring,
like it too withstood too much,
and time lies stoic,
un-moving,
it seems to have lost its two hands.

I feel no presence
of a lingering soul
but only of doubt,
like a constant shadow,
that I'm in a demesne
of someone else's dream
that has been left
long forgotten
and I am, now,
to seek.

I had reasons to doubt
for she had led me astray
one season
and like barnacles
she caused unease,
I did have cause for worry.
Her lure,
akin to a siren,
rivaled the beam of the lighthouse
reaching beyond the horizon
I was convinced
was made to keep.
She ebbed to only surmount
and sheath me in her charm,
her scent had me follow
like a puppy does its master
for she was to lead,
and I was to be lead,
that was the way,
this is what she
always
said.

There
are no
words
I can rote
to eloquently convey
what I can
with the rise
of one finger
whilst on the stage
under the spotlight
and the silhouette'd audience
titled.

The finger trembles
in the dark.

The silhouettes blurs
after the spark.

Why do we catch fireflies in jar?
Why do we carry a net and chase
butterflies?
Why the need to capture beauty
then gawk while it dies
seeps away like the dwindling pleasure
which gets replaced by something wild.

Why do we blind ourselves
from our intricate dark side?
Why do we attempt to disguise
our malice under the robe of
the 'civilized'
when we are id, we are insane
we are the cutters
we are the chained
and we drown while we bury
and we crumble while we push

in layers and layers we carry
the agonizing truth

monsters we made, in mirrors we see
evil isn't another, is it underneath.

There are trails of red
like the threads
of a scarlet dress
that reaches for the floor
on the walls
gripping the paint
dragging its name
telling a story
of how things break,
fall apart and come together
to create something
that makes us
all
afraid.

It is with
the sweeping abandon
of thunder
and the stinging bite
of lighting
that the heart leaps;
beating wild
to a conundrum
that is offset,
which fears and thrills,
encapsulated
by the release
of passion,
so severely withheld
until the roar outside
provokes the flare inside,
and in the heady mix
of fierce power,
spirited temper,
propositioned fear,
and debilitated living,
does the soul tremble,
does the skin shiver
and the body
comes to life.





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