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RUNNING DOWN TILL SUNDOWN

ON THE SILK ROUTE

I set my sights upon the hills of Eurasia,

The mighty mountains amidst the clouds.

I see man strolling with their mules,

With spices and cloth and things sublime.

 

The paths treacherous and unwinding I find,

Set across the halls of Chang’an-Tianshan.

I see footprints of great explorers,

Sifting across the sands of time.

 

Many a traveller do set foot,

Upon a journey so magnificently unruly.

The weather a foe, the beats run wild,

For the sake of pots of gold, footsteps they do hold.

 

I see mules hounded by burden,

Of cloaks of satin and fur-lined boots.

I see travellers from the world over,

Selling goods the ether world never saw before.

 

Many an explorer have trudge along this path,

Memoirs a million told of its travails.

The howling winds betwixt the dunes that passed,

Of creatures that maimed and hunted on these roads.

 

My horses are weak, legs sore and rickety,

They waddle about in a daze as saddles doth droop away.

I must await for my mouth is parched in the sun,

Overcome am I, uncertain mirages abound.

 

I seek for water thus,

In a land so barren of life.

In moments sublime I seek for a soul,

Forbear I must, as I lose all hope.

 

I plunge to the hard ground,

The rocks hot and steamy like the gates of Hell.

I dream of the courts of the Kublai,

Of riches and gold upon the horizon set.

 

I see statues made of gold,

Streets so magnificently laden with emerald stones.

I see palaces as majestic as the Temple of Solomon,

I see ungodly feats of men, made of just sticks and stones.

 

Unfathomable glory I do see,

My eyes shed tears I awe of the glory.

As the sun sets, I sit in repose,

Thinking of a world I’d never set foot upon.

 

In words of immortal ink I thus pen,

Upon this papyrus sheet.

 

Of times I thus besought and searched,

Of a world beyond any mortal reach.

A world that lay untold and unexplored,

A world of my imagination, a figment of an idyllic dream.

 

My flask lay bear and I am defeated,

On these blessed paths in sands of gold.

Of many a stories to come, I stop,

I lay hear looking at the stars,

I dream of many fables lay untold.

 

Farewell sweet souls that wander thus,

I lay upon these grounds tattered, like soldiers mauled by Mongolian lords.

The horses have fled to the far side of the mountains,

In my demise, I dream of the palaces of the Khan.

 

 

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ROOFTOP RENDEZVOUS

I see him lying there in repose,

Robes of white satin wrapped around him.

He lays there motionless and pale,

My brother is silent, calm as he begins his end.

 

I don’t remember much about that eventful night,

I remember the pandemonium that did ensue.

I remember the blaring horns and flashing headlights,

The still darkness and the bang crash boom. The pit of silence.

 

I do remember the next morning,

The blank white walls of the hospital room.

The tubes that run through my veins

The eerie hustle, hushed cries down the corridor. The searing pain.

 

My mother sits in a stupor, staring out the window,

I see tears in my father’s eyes, for the first time.

I look around, in a daze, I look around for my brother,

In silent consolation my father looks away.

In a harrowing reality, my brother had but walked away.

 

Now I am in a state of numb disbelief,

By his cold, pale body, I look at his face waiting for a smile.

I hear the silence in my mother’s heart, the wails of my father,

I see the blankness in these walls again, a sight once so bright.

 

His room still smells of him, I still feel him around me,

The bed still warm as his cold body lays in the other.

I hear his laughter mocking me as if some kind of a bad joke,

There is nothing that slowly shatters my heart into pieces than this, here.

 

Memories of him, keep scratching at the nape,

I shrug it off as it tightens its grip around my neck.

I see him as we ride down the alleys, in laughter and smiles,

I see him hold my hand as we cross the busy streets again.

 

I see my sweet brother, as we sit on the rooftop,

In the middle of the night talking and smoking our lungs.

I think of him as I turn each corner of the house,

I see him bespectacled, reading a book of a same name.

 

Now I sit on the rooftop, lighting up that cigarette,

This time I am here all by myself.

As the procession walks away, the pyre turns to smoke,

He is now resting in memories, he now haunts these four walls in the dark.

 

Reminiscence of times thus passed, years will roll down,

We get used to not having them around.

But at night when I come on the rooftop, I will think of him,

I will think of his eyes, his last night, the flashing headlights,

For in that moment I hope to wake up,

I hope to walk to his room to see him reading that book of a same name.

AND THE WATERS TURNED RED

There are corpses on cornfields,

The sky grim and swallowed by smoke.

The city has thus fallen,

Men lie dead and women wail aloud.

 

There are swarms of children on the dusty streets,

Let abandoned, lonely and motherless.

Beneath the shadow of grief and mourning,

No teat to suckle, just incessant yearning.

 

They rained down upon them,

Like castles falling out of the sky.

Their eyes covered in blood-clumping gravel,

The taste of napalm amidst the morning sun.

 

I see homes abandonment and crumbling,

A sanctum of merriment that it once was.

The flags of our fathers perched high,

As sheep they were slaughtered, benign.

 

A fool’s general raid upon them,

March on these bodies that lay dead.

Where are your Gods, your religion, your creed?

What more are you but children of greed?

 

Obey orders we must you say,

The glory of the Motherland lay waste.

Countless families broken and brothers at war,

Is this the war your Motherland besought?

 

I see rivers turn red,

Skies and clouds turn black and gray.

I see no dirt, no mud, but limbs astray,

I see no power in these petulant misgivings.

 

All wars thus fought, I look back,

For borders and men that lay stale.

Each limb torn, hearts broken and faces pale,

Mother Earth does cry, as these mothers cry for you.

 

PITFALLS

“There is no happiness to life”, she said,

Her arms flailing in the air.

The thought of living didn’t please her,

The idea of going through another day, unsatisfying.

 

The joy of living has thus become a chore,

Moments fleet by without interruption.

She but stands still as the world moves by,

People in wholesome laughter and chatter.

 

She is but untouched by these fleeting illusions,

Yes, happiness is one such fleeting illusions.

Moments so far back in memory,

She struggles to remember, the last time she was truly happy.

 

She wanted to feel all these things,

The shortcomings of life, these simple pleasures.

No one ever seeks to live a life so tortured,

So marred by sadness and unwarranted pain.

 

“I want to feel the breeze”, she said,

“I want to feel the wind crash against the contours of my skin.

Feel the joy of thus being alive.”

But she looked down at her hands, the scars left behind,

Drove her to tears.

 

She quietly retreated to her solemn life,

She returned to the gutters of routine, the sewers of chore.

Maybe happiness is overrated,

Maybe happiness is nothing but distractions to the misery that is life.

UNFLAILING

I could see him from the corner of my eye. Like a ray of sunshine through my window on a summer morning. He wore a white T-shirt that day. A leather jacket hanging carelessly over his shoulder. How could someone be so seductive from afar? I couldn’t help but blush, I was flushed with emotions. As he walked past me, he lowered his shades and winked. A slight smirk surfaced upon his lips. I thought I was going to faint.

All the memories of last night came rushing to me. As we lost ourselves in each other, I’d never felt such immense ecstasy. He said that it was his first time with a boy; but you wouldn’t think so when we got down to it. I felt pleasures I never felt before. As the night went on, we escaped to our own little world away from the cheapskate cacophony that surrounded us. We lay on the beach all night long with a bottle of whiskey, a smooth blunt and a pack of cigarettes. We looked at the stars that lay sprinkled across the sky. We tried to figure out constellations, only to come up with ones that never quite existed and never will.

We kissed under the moonlight, our hands in tandem with our bodies that lay pressed against each other. His hands moved to places on my body that left me flustered and out of breath. As we climaxed, we lay there through the night sparking up that blunt. Two lost souls adrift into the depths of the night. As I reminiscence I couldn’t help but smile. I hoped that more such moments would somehow manifest. He didn’t want anyone to know about our encounter. He said he wasn’t ready to deal with the attention. I suppose he meant stigma. In that moment, I chose to ignore that, for he coaxed me into believing that those moments we shared were too special to be shared with the crowd. It was just something for the two of us.

As I lay lost in these thoughts, I felt a shooting pain through my abdomen as I came crashing to the bare concrete floor. I remember looking at my bloodied hand, the taste of blood lingered in my mouth. As I looked over my shoulder, I saw him. I saw him wielding a baseball bat and laughing hysterically. I couldn’t believe my eyes, as he swung again. I was on the ground grimacing in pain, as he stood over me and spat on my face. I don’t know what happened; I don’t know why it happened. He must have been pressured by his Neanderthal friends, I tried to rationalise his erratic and unnecessary action.

I loved him. I thought he loved me too. But in his eyes, in those moments, I saw the hate and vile disgust rushing through to his sinews. I saw his eyes screaming judgement and spite. As it goes with love and lust, my heart failed to see what my mind did reveal. Nevertheless, there I was again by the beach; in his arms, kissing him. There is a part of me that still loves him and that part probably always will. As we kissed this time, I felt numb.

WHY I LOST MY RELIGION

I remember sitting on the floor cross-legged,

Looking up to an idol made of stone.

My eyes shut, lips pursed in devotion,

My voice quivered with hymns and lyrics divine.

 

The tales of Gods so mighty and bold,

Tales that elders recited so convincingly.

For I, a mere boy of six, sat by their knee in awe,

Hanging on to each word of amazing bravado and mystique.

 

For years on end I knew not of a world,

A world devoid of Gods and angels.

For years on end I believed the world to be one,

One with God and his all-conquering divinity.

 

Skepticism I could not understand,

I shunned those who sought to think otherwise.

I never did think of just one God,

But of a world where Gods doth exist.

 

As years passed on, my mind turned restless,

For answers through God now seldom convinced me.

In place of answers I heard metaphors,

In mistakes of the world, I heard excuses.

 

In times of troubles, where I saw and heard of suffering,

I heard them say, “God works in mysterious ways.”

As men, women and children alike blew up in flames,

“God made them for a reason”, I heard them say.

 

No tangible being thus I’d seen,

Seemed so convincing or bold.

In showers of milk and gold lathered are these piles of stones,

While a child sleeps in hunger just outside the door.

 

I see men swarm these places, in search for absolution,

While leaving the world in tatters to serve a selfish need.

I would not say I am selfless or above these men,

But I’d rather not put my faith in figments of a dream.

 

In deep turmoil, I found no answers in faith,

In times of doubts and questions, they did silence me.

In prayers I found no meaning nor reason,

For in praying I’d become a victim of rote.

 

For a mind so curious does feel confined,

Thus I lost my religion,

For now eyes had opened,

And innocence had died.

ONE PECULIAR MORNING

I feel so lost in this world,

So cacophonous and absurd.

Seeking light in the trenches,

Making conversations with the inanimate.

 

There is beauty in this sombre sunrise today,

As I sit sipping on hot coffee.

The sun brightly placed on the horizon,

As the moon sinks to another world.

 

The birds singing atop branches,

The nightly denizens crawling back into their caves.

People clamouring about on brisk walks,

The dawn seems to bring the best in people.

 

As the sun kisses the cheeks of every leaf,

I feel them wake up, yawn and stretch,

I wonder if these trees feel just as groggy as I do.

 

As I light my morning cigarettes on the porch,

I feel complete, a sense of peace.

A feeling that is seldom truly found,

Not a moment of spiritual tranquility;

But a sense of equilibrium.

 

Children hanging on to the hands of their mothers,

Reluctantly stepping on to school buses.

The innocence in their eyes, yet to be beaten down;

By the chores of monotony.

Curious eyes and curiouser minds thus I see.

 

I never have seen such beauty in the morn lately,

For my thoughts been clouded and overcast with foreboding.

Yet today as I curl up in my robe,

I feel numb, yet present, so peculiar is this day!

WHY WE WRITE IN PAIN….

Poetic are those eyes,

That set fire to my deepest desires.

Colourful are those lips,

That besiege my loins.

 

A lust so obscure, a disease,

From which I seek neither remedy nor cure.

For passions so amorous,

Are seldom bestowed on commoners like me.

 

What use is life devoid of deep passions?

Of what use is a heart devoid of scars?

Of what use is man without love forlorn?

Of what use is beauty that shall forever be yours?

 

Therein lies a deeper problem in men,

Of wanting, needing and seeking.

In pursuit of such we neglect the beauty in loss,

The beauty in unrequited love, in death.

The beauty in the pain that follows the next morn.

 

To be broken and tattered,

Romanticised in glorious words are many.

But in pain you write,

Such infinite, intangible beauty.

RELAPSE

The shadows creeping out again,

Unsolicited visits from the ethereal.

An uneasiness slips into my vile being,

A notion of apparent consciousness.

 

I can hear the screams again,

In this dark and empty room.

A shuddering silence I’d rather prefer,

But these voices in my head, keep me consumed.

 

My fingers begin to tremble,

My teeth start to clench again.

I feel an impending rage seeping through my veins,

I feel my heart pounding against my flesh.

 

A feeling I’d thought left far behind,

The moments that I’d thought had passed.

A guest, quite unwelcoming,

I feel I’m but turning bad again.

 

A crowd awaits at my doorstep,

Judgement in their eyes,

Vengeance in their being.

My soul screams out to me,

Waiting and wishing to be set free.

 

Let go of me you wretched misery!

Leave me be. Let me feel.

Let me know how it feels to smile again.

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