Tuesday, November 17, 2009

What begins on a sunset, ends in black?

I'm neither religious -as much as it fascinates-scares me- nor superstitious, or very at least, but right now, I swear if the heavens could burst forth & say it, I presume they would scream "That doesn't seem like a nice idea”. 
 And I mean this on more levels than either of us comprehend, or imagine.


 For starters, the blog itself. This’ll be the third one that'd actually see the (fast fading) light of the day, readership be damned. That, is not even mentioning the aborted fledglings lying in some dark recesses of what you'd call my mind.
Or timing. As a few know, i've always enjoyed an insufferable sense of time, but this is my second-worst, ever (In the midst of your first end sems?!).

Or, that I’d actually choose to conjure something from The Past, not a fresh cooked dastardity. Verse to boot.


AND, as I write this, the sun sets, turning my sky a blotchy orange mess, speckled purple.

Don't ask me 'Why? '.
Not why I wrote this.
Not why I decide to haunt the blog-verse, again.
Nor why must so I bloody ramble rant and dither.
'Cause you mustn’t ever, the last one.

Bear.




 an untitled ode to frustration(?)

even as my pen touches the paper
a shrill screech echoes
the voices of a million unrequited thoughts
held hostage to propriety, convention, the world
or maybe just the voice of words no longer mine

as my pen touches the paper,
it doesn’t flow, no glides, no will
for what emanates was never mine
each word a farce in itself
the irony of so much meaning
meaning almost nothing at all
the only sound an empty rattle,
or a guitar sans strings
is that of breaking slowly?
disintegrating, reaching out to oblivion

what has changed? where are the strings?
in the screeches, a voice sighs-attached
and attached they are
to my pen like foreign ink, stuck
to my paper like the creases of neglect
to the ink now barely visible,
not as much out of dilution
rather so deep, it spews taints,
that blotches emerge instead of liberation
in an all consuming color it paints
my world, as fire does a village

the words still relentlessly strive
for that one chink in the barrage
only met by more words of a hostile language
the thoughts still drive
the punctured billows of my head, stage
a mute protest to such painless shackles
chanting incoherent for a spark to arise, from
the clinking chains, to set them ablaze
get their due, no care how ephemeral
to give them their feelings, beyond the sterile haze
set me free, nay let me crack
through these walls I create,
beyond the prosaic joy, the constrainted laugh
far away from this sangfroid, the pretense
give me my tears, my scars, not this eye chaff

and so, another died, a rather unremarkable death,
for floating thoughts carry no price,
in times of such hyper relevance,
mere thoughts can afford no bearers

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