I made my way to the temple,
more to set a perfect example.
I looked and turned to the left,
feeling myself quiet adept ;
entered a dirty squalor.
It was old Lucy’s, little bar,
midst neon and fluorescent greens;
I realized after the few sips,
God dwells here in the broken hearts.
I am eclipsing,
and the humour;
is all but missing.
I’ll never call any,
place a home again.
Houses are delusions,
it breeds a menacing familiarity.
Furniture is lined up in solidarity.
Hearth is warm yet,
the air is unfriendly. Glances
and few whispers, it’s the,
same old nuisances.
I know I don’t belong,
anyhow I trudge along.
The fear is not of drowning in your eyes,
nor sinking in those pools of translucent dews but
of being abandoned at the sides of your lips
by the myriad tear-drops.
Trapped in a fluid body,
tentacles of burgundy garbed
thoughts oozing out like
myriad snake heads. Sniffing
somberly, the dark melancholia
pervasive in the air and then
crawling back, melting again
with the red hues.
Tiny little droplets of desires,
evaporating on the
wings of bluish helium;
like morning dew.
Life a struggle, to extract honey
out of sacks of wild weed.
The regal parade continues to march on.
Many who exist in silent, will reach the end.
Few Spirited ones will depart near the next turn.
Corpses will be shoved by the strapping boots.
Blood stains will rust up on the parched land.
The glorious spectacle is a site to behold.
The regal parade continues to march on.
Disguised in the
hollow curves of
your eloquent words,
do I hear a vicious
hissing ; whispers of
a conniving heart?
Why do I visualize
a serpentine on the rock?
I’m not beguiled by
your deceptive talks.
By the tinkering of your
silver coins.
For I’ve on my hump back
burden of enough winters
to mark a
Devil in a sea of Men.
PB Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
“ The ceremony of innocence is drowned.”
W. B Yeats
Out of ceremonial fires emerged,
tiny amber sparks of soot.
Fires were lit to please the
dormant demigod.
Saintly priest offered one thousand
ablutions to the mighty
demagogue , enthroned
on a regal Peacock Throne.
A neck was twisted, a cord broken,
out of hollow spine;
gushed ruby coloured brooks of blood.
A spectacle of blood-bath assembled
to sacrifice an Innocent at the
altar of a strapping few.
