I have no guidence.

Searched on every summit
for some lost elusive cure,
and for the alchemy to make
me feel like I was pure.

Violently, I've torn through
the marrow of all I am,
begging every single deity
I've known for their hand.

I have no peace.

Maybe healing will never surface,
Maybe muffled by the sand.
A doctrine for the hopeful,
Who will never understand.

Wounds have always held
Daggers that were never removed.
What if pain protects the heart
Because it never is renewed?

I have no harmony.

Singing broken hymns can birth
another's hymn of praise.
Unspoken cosmic laws that state
Examples must be made.

I am never truly broken,
I can wish to be in time,
But I remain a quantum sonnet,
That is void of any rhyme.

I have no exit.

Maybe there is grace that lives
Within my wilted plea.
In knowing, I'm exactly
Who I knew I'd always be.

In a life of pulling chains,
Tethered to a hopeless mind.
What is left within a soul,
To see a purpose that's divine,

Without the residue of ash
From embers charring bone?
Without emotions echoes,
That have turned it into stone.

The cold sweat of empathy
For the fellow misbegotten.
Or wihout the twitching nerves
Of a body that is rotten.

I have no dreams.

I cannot find belief in me
For false restoration.
No longer a beggar for
A hollowed-out salvation.

I walk with aching fractures
To a rapture born in rust.
A fate I feel deep in my core,
That all is made of dust.

I have no reasons.

What's the purpose
For this riddle I weave?
Is there truth in what remains,
Or is truth in what will leave?

As I stand, a withered body,
weeping now without a plea.
I am all I ever was,
All I've known I'd ever be.

I have no future.
​

Could I have done more, yes
But I'm worn out at best
Sore by the pound and stressed
The more I try to get it back like before
The more I regress
I know the score,
I know what's in store,
What it is I'm in for
But sure,
Let's hear what YOU suggest?

©2024

~For Pradip~*
Pradip: who yet walks among we useless

<>

this
layabout in my drafts,
driftwood in a sea of
******* poems in a circumscribed
hell
for who knows for how long,

all that is certain is that
summer ending dreading,
is in full force
now marching
forward,  
with the end of days

of body chilling whipped winds,
cold so paining no one be bothering
to breathe out white steamy curses
and life is a half a calendar league
too far to be believed

I mate much coffee imbibed,
the cheeks wet incessant,
no error, the death thots~
throes come in waves persistent,
like the monsoons we’ve survived,

it’s easier to recall army of  losses
than the few
teaspoons victories,
who cares,
they plentiful companions,
reliable,
and we
share them with cups of black tea,
salted by our tiny tears that this too
shall past

for:*

it’s the seasonality of our lives,
and these are the  days of
unending unendurable
grayscale

Well worn roads
are generally
full of potholes.