journey through

Someday I shall be old Someday I will be old, and I shall look back at my life, at the seed I planted, of the crops I cultivated. I shall close my eyes and sink into the memories of the time when it was all bliss. I shall remember a time when I never saw worry creep over from the distant sea, finding me on the shore. I shall look back at the times of play, a time of joy, a time when I was lost, but I never saw it, even though everyone did. I shall remember of the times when I could climb the hills and swim the oceans, a time when noise was what gave me life, long before my ears turned deaf, and the sun turned me to wax. Someday I shall be old, and I shall see the pitfalls, the traps that were laid, by they that seek prey, they that sought to consume me whole, and maybe I shall regret, that I could not jump in time, that I could not run as fast, and maybe I shall laugh, that the pain made me whole, and that a lesson I learnt would never leave, and I could never forget the scar on my f

Fields of gold It started raining, and to go out we could not, for she said to wait, until the grass became dry. I went out alone, and watched as the wet grass lapped at my feet, and I found the daffodils, before their beauty was eaten away by the morning sun. I lay down in wait, in the fields of gold, knowing that she would come, but before she did, there came a fog, there came rain. I was stabbed by thunder, and struck by lightning, and I lost my way to her. I lost my way home. I thought to wait far off, in a land unknown, believing that she would tarry, for her promise still rung in my head, that she would come, when it was finally light, that she would find me, when she regained strength. But it has never become light, and maybe she never regained her strength. Oh love, you have made me wait, and patiently I have served my sentence, but my heart is weak, and it cannot wait anymore. I have wandered around, seeking the field, but it’s all misery; it’s all grief. Come and save me, o

Ghosts Tattered a bridge over an expanse, and a tot tries his way through, his eyes yet to open, his footsteps still drunken, and oh, my heart is running, it is on the brink, and I die a little with every step taken, but it is life, a huge bridge with gaping holes, waiting for you to sink, and your name to be forgotten. I see me in him, a man with the eyes of a hawk, the appetite of a vulture, and the courage of a raven, burnt to embers by the sharp eyes of life, reduced to ashes by the tough fires of hell. I see myself in the past, when I still had life, before I turned into a ghost. I see myself, poisoned by the roots of existence, consumed by the wild and strange pleasures of life, and my time is gone, tortured by pleasures I cannot partake in, for my tongue hath lost taste. Just like the tot, I am blind, too far, too lost to be saved. I look beyond to see my future, but it is a bastard, and my past is an orphan, myself a sterile man who never birthed, but lost. Tonight it shall

‘tis here You sold yourself to the night, and they paid you in nightmares. They gave you the same quota that you gave, your life and your freedom. Worry not, for greed hath killed many before you, and has claimed many a life before it had yours in its grip. Thou hast changed, thou hast been consumed, by the very dogs you reared. Your hair is tough as nails, matted with mud and filth, remnants from where you emerged. Oh, good one, where did it all go wrong? Where did it all fall apart? Crumbling, slowly by slowly, your blood is roiled in mud, a stench to high heavens. Thy end, ‘tis here. I can see it, can you? Make your choices fast, and begin descending to your grave, a grave you dug. There is no end to your falling, and there is no respite from the fire, for it shall scorch you till you are but a pile of dust. You are a leper, and your fingers crumble before they get to touch. Your eyes fall off before they even begin to open. Your eyes close out, blind to the world you had known,

Jabez What do you know of peace when all you speak of is war? What do you know about living when all you do is hanging of hoops and sharpening of knives? What do you know of harmony when all your time is spent in the forges preparing thy tongue? You are not a warrior for peace. You are a messenger of impunity. You are not an object of love. You are one of sorrow and sadness. I saw your mother, and she was weeping, oh Jabez, you were born with pain, and your name was that of anguish. You have suffered, and you have borne a heavy load. Oh Jabez, she weeps that you broke her heart, and your conception tore her in two. Thou art cursed, and your life shall be like that of a runaway bitch. You shall be kicked and insulted. You shall be the child of the dark, born and bathed in bile and sterile ash. You were born of hips that refused to yield you. While others were born among feathers, you were delivered on the cold and crowded floor. Oh Jabez, thy name means grief. Oh Jabez, the hunter of

Death of the Inmate When they took you from your house, you saw the crowd and raised your voice, but they drowned it with their conspirator’s whispers. You heard them lay accusations on your head, and they heaped coal on you. You felt their words bite deep into your flesh, as they lead you up the mountain, to make the last feast of you. Even though many were against you that day, you were believed by a few, those who were keen to understand than to judge, those who were keen to listen than speak. Just know that you were, and thy death was not vain. Before you even closed your eyes, your case had been solved, and many of those that were pointing fingers had long withdrawn, and they unhanged you from where you were suspended, swinging in the evening wind, and the post creaking with your weight. I heard your dying song, and it made me weep, almost leave my seat. I heard the last of whispers and saw the last of your kicks, but your eyes were wide open even as you left, begging to be beli

Tonight I die next to you Together we have had a life that we’ve loved, of good and of bad, of kisses and of slaps, of pillows and stones. Together we have walked the long road through life, and we have drunk of its bitter cup, and have seen the sweet nectars of life. We have been through it all, and never let go of each other, so pray for me, in the hour of my death, as I did in yours, for tonight, I die next to you. What would life be if love long left our sight, and we have nothing else to love? What would it be if all you leave behind is darkness and strife? I have tried to grope through, but I grab at nothing but darkness, I find nothing but nightmares, if they told me to take immortality, I would gladly refuse. If they said to hand the world to me on a silver platter, I would refuse. I am afraid of darkness on that other side, and the emptiness, and the loneliness, but I had better fight darkness with you there than have all the light in the world alone. Oh this barrenness, an

A life without friends means death without company  Basque proverb

Prayer of desperation Your child was weeping, father, lamenting about her life, about what she had and what she did not. She wanted you to come into her life, to erase her shame, and allow her a little glory. To wipe the tears off her face, and give her a little cheer. Oh father, she craved a child, but when you gave her a womb, you took away her life. When you gave her the farm to cultivate, you took away the rain. Oh thy hand has been too strong, and your blow too tough. You have attacked us, with hands of stone, and thy rod and staff has long ceased to comfort us. Oh why have we wept for bread, only to be handed scorpions? Why have we prayed for fish and you give us snakes? We shall sing a song for you father, not one of praise but one soaked with lamentations. We shall sing a song, a loud and lewd song, full of provocation, a song of anger, and ire. Oh we shall sing. We shall sing a song, but shall we sing for the child unborn of the woman dead? Father, we are at crossroads, and

When I become a hero If the men come for me today, again, I shall let them toss me around just as they did yesterday, like the wind does to a stray paper. I shall let them drag me down, and across the fields with their horses. I shall let them call me names, and I shall let them, hold vigils for me. I shall be content to watch them, drag my name through the mud. I shall not flinch when their whips hit me on the back, nor will I be shaken when they chastise me with their scorpions, for I know that it is just but for a time. I know that there are many blank pages that I have to fill, and there is so hard a road that I have to walk, but I know that someday, I shall become a hero. I shall play a victim for some time, and like a bitter pill I will let their torture go down my throat, and I shall not weep or lament, because I know that someday when I become a hero, I shall look down at them, and they shall bow in supplication. They will kiss my feet, and they will write my name on their arm

I saw a stranger. He was roaming in the rain, and I made a cloud on my window, so he could not see me inside. I saw another, shivering out in the cold, and I doused my flame, lest he asked to come in, and partake of my warmth. I saw a beggar, with his bowl in the street, and I took mine out too, and my worst of rags, so he could not ask for some alms. I had food in plenty, and when I saw the hungry man, I sucked in my stomach, and walked past him. I locked my door, when I saw a poor child knocking on my neighbours’. I unleashed my dogs, when I heard the cane of the blind man tapping outside on the sidewalk, and he ran into the empty street. I laughed when I saw a man fall into a puddle, but I had forgotten that where I came from there was rain too. It made me happy, when my enemy was struck by a streak of bad luck, and the sound of lightning gave me comfort when the man I hated was wandering outside. I saw a man that had my debt of a few coins, and I rushed to the door, a club in

Victims Run not from me, ye that fear what I say. Do not try to escape, ye that have foreseen my end. Try not to run away, for you too shall not escape the sharp edge of the sword. It shall claim me, and it shall claim you all. Look up and see. It is getting dark, yet it is just morning, and when I look up in the sky, I see pandemonium. The blue is no longer innocent. It is full of brown, the colour of death, the colour of dust and subverted authority. The clouds float by like sheep without a shepherd, nay; a shepherd without sheep. I can see you all, victims of death, victims of life. You all are on passage, and your mistakes pile on top of each other. You are not forgiven, and you shall never be forgiven. You shall pay, for there are consequences. I am not alone on the path to ruin, and though my heart is weak and my flesh is crumbling, it is what it is, for I am prepared for the end, goaded into a corner by the knives you thrust into me. I can see a crowd, trooping straight behind

OF THEE I AM JEALOUS Of thee I am jealous, of the way you lay repose, next to that burning flame, on top of that wooden catafalque. Of thee I am jealous, the way your arms are crossed over thy chest, the way your eyes lay closed and the way you lie unbreathing. Of thee I am jealous, of your crisp suit, of your faded skin and of your deathly lips. Of thee I am jealous, of the song of silence on your lips, of the stationary winds in your hair, of your airless breath and of your unseeing sight, of time that you cannot count, even as it flits by. Oh my heart is burning, not with grief but with envy. Where are you headed, and why do you leave me here? In your death you have peace, and you have left me to the world, left me with the chaos and left me with the grief. Oh you have escaped the sharp talons of life. You have escaped the sad laughter and the exaggerated glee. You have run away from overrated happiness and you have saved yourself from all this vanity. I am jealous that you leave w

Blandness Many times you have let it be, that anger has blinded your eyes and ire has taken over your life. You have embraced sorrow for so long, and you have stayed too long in your bed of grief, that you remember no more what it feels to be happy. You have ceased to live, and life has long left you. You were a bee, but you have long convinced yourself that you are a fly. Oh son, you have allowed death to rule your soul. You have allowed darkness to carry a sceptre, and declare itself king in the kingdom of your being. You have been chained to a post, by an imaginary rope, and you have been held back by your own fear, like a dog without a chain, but still lies around the chaining post. You have closed the doors and the windows and allowed the smoke to sail into your heart. You have broken all the mirrors because when you look at them you see not the scar on your face but that in your heart, but oh, they do not lie. Count not the graveyards lest they sprout outside in your yard. Do no

Graveyard My heart is a graveyard, and oh your voice is the dirge. Bring your flowers everyone, and decorate this old stone. Come with thy solemn songs and torture me again. My flesh was too tender and could not take the scratches. My soul was too weak to handle being alone, but lies, isn’t that what love is made of? I cannot escape this trap. I cannot run away from this pain, for she has me, like death has man. They are my masters now, the realms of sorrow and the kingdoms of gloom. You convinced me that you meant no harm and peace we brokered, but with a dagger in your hand. I watched in disbelief, as my tormenter picked a whip and spread me on my stomach. I winced as the whiskers burnt my flesh. I flinched through every stroke but I did not say. I cherished this pain, for love is never really a bed of roses, but that shroud of thorns. Oh you asked me to read your eulogy when you died, but you were writing mine all the while. Hold my head as I address the executioner. Hold me steady

Fighting for love A broken heart can never fail to find its way home, not in darkness and not in light. A blind heart still sees, and a deaf one still hears. Love, it takes no count of wrong, and even when hate roars, the whisper of love still rises above the noise. When the valley is flooded with the stench of death, the soft waft of love can still be felt. Its song is poetry, even above the sound of drums of war. It is a table of fools, and of idiots smitten, blind and stupid, lost and without cause, but it is venom that all of us crave, a trap that all of us fall into. Love is a door to the unknown. And so I shall knock at thy door, and I hope that you shall open. I shall kneel at thy mat, and I hope that you shall hear my humble supplication. It is a call for war. It is a roar of idiocy, of foolish and vain bravery. Take the hammer and the nail, and crucify me to the floor. Take the whip and flog me. Chastise me with scorpions, and double my yoke, but fear I shall know not. Be fo