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I was molested...
she finally wrote these words
in an old weary diary, tired.
...at a tender age of seven,
I was,
Tears rolled down and she scribbled again,
this old woman suffered, approaching her death.
I work as a nurse in this quite hospital
and two months ago, I was given the job to take care
of her, The silent and reserved old lady never spoke to me.
but when two men I guess older than her
paid a visit, she somehow seemed happy rather satisfied.
after they had left, she began writing and I became
curious.
she wrote further...
by a pair of two teenage brothers, twins.
I never knew what had happened to me was so
critical. I thought they just played with me.
I grew up and before soon I realised it was wrong and punishable.
I...I kept quite.
I pretended to live a normal life
with a wretched heart.
the sad ones they say
but no matter what
I just couldn't stop thinking about it.
very soon I was a teenager too.
I developed new ways to  turn my misery into laughter.
They... were people we had known for a long-time
and they'd visit home at least three times a year or so
and when they would I saw guilt in their eyes.
Before I could even understand I fell in love with one of them.
I didn't tell just like they won't ask for forgiveness
or I was not so confident to confess.


O ye tears hanging up to her eyelashes
find way down and wash
pain from her beautiful heart
with the same purity of aught.


as she closed the diary she said wiping her tears;
sometimes, I feel like the floor
a quite muse to adore
how important
but forgotten.
sometimes, I feel like the sky
the highest of prides
however distant
but remembered in your heart.
no offence meant.
When you were old enough
You answered the call to serve
Many friends among you
Didn't have the nerve

Off to basic training
Learn to fight a war
Time to become a man
Off to a foreign shore

Battles you will face
Put your life on the line
Dying for your country
To you that would be fine

For our freedom
You paid with your life
Leaving your parents
Kids and a wife

Thank you for your sacrifice
A cost we cannot repay
Allow us to honor you
On this Memorial Day

Our Country
Forever in your debt
Promises that...
We will never forget
Stranded on this bridge to nowhere,
The way I came fades into fog—
How far have I come?
The path ahead bleeds into black;
I know where it leads.
I hear voices, I see people;
Some of them have faces.
Most of them have blurred edges,
Like passing phantoms
In a lingering dream.
Their voices sift through my fingers
As I reach out to touch
Their faces. Like ripples in a pond,
I see my own distorted face.
My own eyes looking back,

My eyes looking back through
The fog from which I came;
I see nothing (though I see everything)
—that is not the way.
I look ahead into the
Black beckoning forth;
I unheed the call, I lean
Over the rail, off the side
Of a bridge neither black,
Nor white, just mist; a mixture of both.
Maybe this is the way.
I wish I could write like E.A. Poe,
Where dark and sombre, rule the flow,
There's death and despair at every turn,
To have his skill I truly yearn.

Villainous, evil, haunting, macabre,
A poet version of the Marquis De Sade,
His writings dark, visionary, bleak,
Providing no signs of the hope you seek.

A poetic genius, without compare,
His delivery leaves you within Satan's glare,
And why I know this thing for sure,
I wish I could write like E.A. Poe.*

© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2016
I can feel the gentle, rhythmic breathing
And the tepid touch of your skin
Soon the sun will rise,
And you must go to class
But you will mutter an excuse
Just to stay a minute more with me

I can hear your soft snores,
And muffled moans
Soon we will succumb to summer,
And it’s malicious motives,
To bisect your beauty,
From my greedy grasp

I can smell the shampoo
That I will never smell again
For I will move,
And you will move,
A Dispossessed Connection

Though our spring may have ceased
Our wilted whispers will never wane
Though my bed may be devoid
I’ll remember where you had lain.

I’ll remember our long laughs
And your sweet smile, more stunning than the stars
I’ll remember our wishful words
And the times that were ours.
*Written in the end of a night at the end of a year
 May 2016 Viji Suresh
Edward Lear
There was on Old Man of the Isles,
Whose face was pervaded with smiles;
He sung high dum ******,
And played on the fiddle,
That amiable Man of the Isles.
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