Darkness divine,
walk beside me.
Can we revive
what we don't see?

Through misty eyes,
we see the lies
that they disguise.
Such fallacy!

Obsessed with the shade of the night,
Blinded by the fear of the light.
Can anyone tell me oh why?
Why do we pretend to not see?

Everything's an illusion in the broad daylight.
Confusion created by the distorted lies.
Haunting us every day and every night.
Truth is an ideological sacrifice.








Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2019.
All Rights Reserved.

Away you keep me
As if I’m in the way
Hiding in your skin
Poking at your veins
You sold me the sun
For a kiss and a loan
But I ain’t got a dime
So I live on my own
Where I’m bound to sleep
In a cellar you lost
With the ghosts of your past
Just a name and a box

Loving an addict is like living in a haunted house
It isn't always scary, but when it is, it is terrifying
It is shake you in your bones, haunt you to your core ~ terrifying

Little things lead up to the big scares
A bump in the night
(of *******)
A spilled elixer on the floor
(of straight *****)
A crushed up relic scattered along the floor tiles
(of Oxycontin pill bottles)

And you try to pretend it isn't happening
And you tell everyone you can't see the ghosts
And you ignore the loud noises and the sudden screams in the night
After all, this is your home and he is your heart


And now your heart is haunted

There is a house on Southeast Bank.
It simmers as it has done since the 1900s,
it's been derelict for at least a decade now.
Sometimes, the local teens hangout and drink underage
but mostly it sits
Patiently.

There is a living room in the house.
The house that sits on Southeast Bank.
A leather reclining armchair lays, sprawled across the carpet.
A carpet in which the previous mother of the house would've claimed "costs hundreds" and "came from Egypt".

As daylight stretches toward the bookcase.
The bookcase in the room,
The room in the house,
the house that sits on Southeast Bank.
It's not unexpected to see
all the dust that flitters in the air
dancing to the tune of what was once life
a place for the living.
Reminders that once there may have been a family here.
But who knows.

Who knows what happened to them,
did the kids grow up too fast?
Did the parents split up?
Did someone die before their time was due?
And it's all written in the dust.
The dust that haunts the bookcase
the bookcase in the room,
the room in the house,
the house that sits on Southeast Bank.