The Beloved's Cry

I float, on the night sky. A shadow gleaming, in the moonlight.

Transparent, fragile, yet in perfect harmony, with the winter night.

Sorrow, suffering in tranquility, past bereavement floating away.

The cycles overlapping, as calmness prevails, the last storm,

long gone.

Broken houses, shattered dreams.

Strewn across the valley, I see her crumbled past.

Her ghost floats in and out of existence, into the dark, searching.

A hand. Her heart is tired. She holds a rose, never to let go.

I am cut to pieces, the snow falling through me.

I wonder what the storm is upto now.

Destroyed in seconds, the lives of many. Destroyed the harmony,

of love and light and darkness.

She, was an amenable companion. Let the storm cut through her,

while I fought through it.

I am cut to pieces, the snow, falling through me.

But I, never mattered to her. I was a drop of dew, to the rain.

A burning ember, to the fire.

A floating lily, floating, forever.

Sylvia's Homecoming.

An abstemious silence, chortled through the mist,

with my hands tucked tightly in, I walked on.

Knowing not, where I was heading, knowing not,

where I wanted to head, but knowing this,

that I wanted, in all certainty, to get away.

I had left my coevals behind, unable, to bear any more of it,

the pain, ebbing, as the cold mist played through me.

Endless nights spent in nihility, madness knocking, every other minute,

Depravation, torture.

Behind enemy lines, in that house, they kept,

Subjects to their inhuman lust,

victims without a voice, and no shadow.

A knowledge, without a cause.

A woman without a name, and a man, who beat us,

a feeder, with his putrid flesh, and the demons they kept within.

Demons, not to be seen, and unheard of, demons, of my imagination.

The taste of blood, filling up the mouth, as they fed us, the remains,

inhuman food, I thought.

I had no choice. Chained to bear in silence,

forced, to sleep the churl.

Inebriated, with my very blood, as they pounded their stones, into us.

At first there was pain. Unbearable, mind numbing pain.

My shadow was skinned, part by part, till she gouged herself out, writhing,

as the metal casts were nailed to her skull.

Frenetically, they would rape, bite, and poke,

inducing, a trance, devoid of pain and understanding.

Furtively, they would feed on me, with their eyes gleaming,

cold.

Through the mist I could see a house, not too far away,

as I reached out for it. Dawn, would take me back.

A knock, maybe two, and the door flung open,

and she stared back at me.

'Sylvia. Welcome back home'.

A Remnant, From the Other Side

Torrential sequenced downpour, of depressed emotions,

Animosity within giving way to bestial desires of the flesh.

A blur of random thoughts, harrowing through the empty walls that contain them.

Meaningless melancholy, under a false pretense of you coming back,

To vanquish my demons that haunt me so.

My Shadow laughed at me, though euphemistically, and devoid of the certain scorn

that it sometimes does, when it longs for me to sit beside, and listen to its agony.

Hiding within the corners of my denial lies a beast, surfacing, for that single moment,

of undeterred pleasure and obliviousness to pain and morals and ethics.

I succumb to the lust, beating down, the deluge of fear, that for once seems to take control,

and dissuade the rising rush of another, old man's tale.

As his shouts resurface, I lunge into her vulnerable nest,

the chain of command, followed to perfection, and the endless night giving way to the morbid

death of a friend. But I truly did love her.

No! I screamed in my head, as he faded away, the concomitants lost along.

I struggled for every gasp of air, as my chest straightened in a spastic surrender.

Every effort, reduced me to the floor, draining me of every ounce of sanity left within, as I held, against his will.

Vicarious and random epiphanies hit me, as I lay on the floor. Waiting, for my mind to clear.

I had, I thought, fought it off.

Later that night, I slit her throat, and all was well again.

Silence.

As i walked away from him,

and away, from the child of my intricate nurturing, that I had longed so much for years,

I feel exultant. My darkness revealed, as my shadow, embraced itself.

He no longer laughs, nor taunts nor provokes.

Looks like, he has finally made his peace with me.

Euthanasia

As I wait, for sleep to coil me in its stoic silence every night,
I stare out, of my bedside window, to see the nefarious street light,
Taking away the one thing that I so long for.

Inveighing, against its placement in my mind, I stare on,
Knowing not, what I would be drawn into, come sunrise.

I pray for sleep, to surround me in all its euphemism,
And feed me, reality, only expurgated, to keep me, from losing my mind.

A car passes by. Maybe two.
The silence disturbed, for a few moments, beating back consciousness,
to a stopped heart, beating without cause.

I look out at the night, the endemic spreading through me,
As it coils me in its web, and puts me painlessly, to sleep.

Night, and the silver moon

The one lost between the years, to the congruous symphonies of treachery.

I have been cursed, to live immortal,

for a thousand years to come, and gone by.

Feeding on fear and loneliness, to satiate my obsession,

for a one true friend, who never came.

How I long for the rising sun, to drench me in a veil of light,

kissing my skin tenderly, and warming my blood.

How I long to hear the birds, sing away, in all their exultance.

In them, I find a resonating heart, incapable, of human emotions.

Bereaved, of Improvident and ignominious acts of misery.

How blessed are those who have no fears!

to whom the night brings the blessing of sleep, and nothing, but sweet dreams!

The Last Song Of Spring

Oh eternal spring, renew me in thy glory,

blow away the putrid ample from the hearts of mine,

and calmly lift the burdens , that have weighed me down so.

I have crossed over, from the dimension of my foes,

to the world of my dreams, where honey, drips from every

blossom, and men make merry.

I take non with me. For non have earned my love.

Orphaned me, in the land of sin,

and bestowed on me these thorns, that drip my blood to thee.

Marked me, with a brand of hate, and claimed me to be the din.

While all I looked for, was a knit by the fireplace,

warming, my cold hands and feet, while the broth cooked away,

and the bread, baked by the wood.

All I wanted, was a sleep, not of men or lust,

but in the solace of my dreams, of fairies and elves,

and witches and song.

All I wanted, was a dance, at my wedding, with the man

that claimed a deal of me.

But your wish, is my command. Wasn't I brought up to believe?

The lord of lords shall save the flower, from the bees,

and let it blossom and guide, till its day outdone?

And I do, like a faithful wife, married to the word of faith,

die, to meet the one who sits above in name.

And you bestow me, with a place, and a hymn to be sung, for a

thousand years, a scent, forever free.

For they have killed me. And yet, I see.

A dew on a leaf, a smile on a child about to awaken,

a tear, of a woman whose son martyr'd.

And In these, shall I live.

A Woman's Paraphernalia

Her time stood still,

sitting behind the open door, she stared out.

Into the winter street, but into herself, reflecting upon her meagre,

beating heart.

The kaolin structures stood as still as they were meant to be,

But she wished for them to move.

For she so longed for movement,

a change from her black and white life,

playing out, like a broken frame, into the hands of time.

Her tears had faded into her skin and dried,

She was a ghost, floating in and out of her sanctity,

like a reflection without a cause,

an effeminate apparition.

They, were dimorphic, of the love she had never had,

and the one she had found and lost.

Her dolls were of all hues and sizes,

they sat, beneath the wreath, by the fireplace.

She sang to them. They were all that she had left.

Her old wooden doll house,the ceramic tea set,

she would lose herself every waking moment to her paraphernalia.

How she loved them!

Their meaningless echolalia soothed her,

ecdyated her, of her burdens.

Confined to the complexities of her residual emotions,

she comforted them each day.

In return, they helped her forget her bereavement,

and atone for the crimes she had befallen on herself.

No. She was not mad.

Unless being in love, is symbolic of some strange madness.

Its just that, she chose to love, what we fail to understand.