Woke I from an abstract dream of childhood
As I watched her fall asleep.
There is no pain like a silent lullaby
And God works in mysterious ways.
The Cycle of PassionNever knowing eyes never did haunt us
’Tis our own ditty which fails to daunt us;
The amorous rose or the lovebird’s lustre
Leaves but two shades for a season’s fluster,
Yet the poet’s pen is perchance guided
With rabid romance, nature unprovided -
For summer songs are bare conversation
Betwixt life and long winter’s predation:
Pale thirst for passion or higher power
Quenches its quaff in the quiet hour,
The soul’s tragedy is in demanding
Liberty lost from body remanding
Creation’s cold woes and callous joys, cannot grace
Vanity’s visage or the selfsame face,
In vain, we swallow the daily smother
To love ourselves, we love another.
Sleep Well, My SoulSleep well, my soul, the light has passed
’Tis dark, this closing hour,
Rest in peace, sweet life, at last
Let your toils awake a flower.
Dream deep, asleep, of each roving wraith
Which sought a home in thee
And sigh a little, for the wasted faith
Which were born of you and me.
And smile beneath the mourning ground
As the world clasps morning’s glory,
For the moon still dotes the earth around
And the sun gilds another story.
And then, in a squall of rain and rue
Lament life’s sole severance;
For god and men, we wept them true,
Slighting our Reverence.
The Fall of EpithilinonI
Let no man speak of wars whence
No answer graced our call,
Let man remember gods thence
Gods, watchful of our fall;
Speak in silenced sighs, men,
Dead men hither sleep,
No flag here flails, amen, amen!
Who can ever beweep
Our brethren in the deep.
Frightened colours breached the sky,
The church bells played a dirge;
The bustling hills and vales so nigh
In crimson rage did merge,
Archers with crescents held high
Keen arrows fell like sin,
The portcullis in sorrow, shy
Interred our fathers in
The last grave of our kin.
Wailed the night in thunder blare;
The mangonels did come,
Lonely trumpets singed the air
When Earth ravished our home;
The eastern tower, wasting wear
For a trebuchet did bow,
Fallen stone and ballista bare
Broke its stony vow,
As the beadle mopped his brow.
Mildly armoured, men at arms
Stormed the brazen fray,
Howled the castle’s cold alarms:
Ladder men up the brae!
Blazed in ire the fields and farms:
The winter’s yield was spent;
A Slice of EntropyLife is not form or symmetry or a stack of hours
on a dustless shelf
falling, hovering, floating, flailing
feeling comfortably numb
in a lover’s grasp
is the autumn of an ancient anarchy
knowing all these affections are temporary
and as they cease, so shall I
from a star to a star
streaks the dye of the unending night
shedding colour on what is alive
basking in the ambivalence of creation
wondering what is the great purpose
of existence, survival, procreation;
Why must life go on?
life goes on
fantasy, excess, poverty
of objective, of reason
naught lasts a season,
gravity is the do all end all
in the cosmos, time rules god.
Wishes and wills, thoughts, sentiments, impulses,
cannot slow that unforgiving arm,
or plug that black hole of impendence,
victory and defeat
will meet at square 1;
the cheers and the jeers will die away
in the violence of that
Life – 0. Death – 0.
Vita incerta, mors certissima.
My Knight in Formal ArmourNobody loves Monday, but she was not Nobody. Monday mornings meant a host of official emails, a swarm of new themes to gossip about and a cup of tea that couldn’t quite wake her from the torpor instilled by the weekend’s laxness. Her boss would come up to her desk and take a progress report of her current projects and by the end of the day she would have to type it out send over once again. She would often order takeaway to brighten the fated day but it did little to change things when you have to be professional while eating your fricassee or your fries. A potpourri of “social synergy” events often took place on Mondays, but to know that that was another excuse to boost employee efficiency conveyed a heart of emptiness.
She worked on seventh grade textbooks, filtering through its content with the keen eye one develops as an editor and looked forward to that first cup of tea that would give her a few minutes to stare at the day’s excited sensex. The cup of
You are EverythingYou are amazing.
You are the smiling face,
That gave that kid
Better hope for this place.
You are the helping hand,
Even if you didn’t know it,
That helped everything turn out
Better than planned.
You are the voice
That helped someone
Make a vital choice.
You are the joke
That made them laugh
And gave them that stroke
Of happiness that they needed.
You are the bright eyes
That light the way,
A lantern of hope
Through the fog of lies.
You are their push towards
Their positive afterwards.
And you are far from worthless.
Are the most important person
In the world.
We are all characters
In someone else’s story.
That pivotal point,
That pushes them from misery,
And leads them to their glory.
I Will Love MyselfSilence was at my doorstep.
Rain fell from the storms of my eyes
and hit the cold earth of my cheeks.
Sunlight fell down my face
in gentle waves.
And blood tinted lips
smiled only slightly.
The gentle spring
that bloomed inside my chest
had begun to grow
and replace the winter
whose frost had held tightly
onto my heart.
Silence was welcome.
Tears were shed in joy.
Sunlight was here to warm
and blood to live.
This was it.
I had made it.
I know who I am.
Eat Something, PleaseIt's your fault, you know.
It's you who's spewing your guts into the toilet,
like powdery snow.
Every day you hit the bathroom floor,
grasp the porcelain rims,
and your vomit echo through the door.
I hate it! I hate it, more than anything in the world.
I wish you could just tape your mouth shut,
and your noises I could ignore.
It's all about you, and the agony you've been through,
but through your selfishness and saliva,
I hope you realize I suffer too.
I stay by your side when you treat me like crap.
When you scream at me and yell,
I've always had your back.
How I wish I could purge when life gets too tough,
I wish I could be weak like you,
but my strength is just too much.
How wonderful it would be, if you could take my place,
and when you saw your broken form,
then you would see the pathetic look on your face.
But “plop, plop, plop” your vomit continues to roar,
and through the repetitive screech,
how I wish I could slam the door.
I wish I had the strength to leave your
I Won't Let You Become Like MeI saw you fall to the floor.
Because you couldn’t take this anymore.
You laid there and said to me,
Through tears that fell from your eyes,
“Who cares if I were to die?”
Reminding me of those hundreds of times,
I’ve seen people bend and break.
I’ve gotten so used to smiles that are nothing more than fake.
I remembered standing by silently,
Watching everyone collapse around me.
Seeing bottles scattered around,
Broken glass covered the ground.
And I wondered to myself,
“Is he ever going to get better?”
And I watched you as you died,
Slowly tearing yourself apart from the inside.
Memories are still flickering,
Behind my eyes.
I suddenly remember my own cries,
For someone to save me.
Because I was so close to falling,
That the abyss seemed more inviting,
Than trying to hang on for a moment longer.
Because my arms were too tired,
To hold on.
I am back in reality,
Watching you fade away.
And I see myself,
And the countless other people I’ve wit