Tag: God

Mythmaker


I was sentenced to make myths for men.

There I stood, assembled,
In the centre of a blank room:
Unadorned and without any orifice,
Time for me was a corpse in an ocean,
Swollen, floating, rotten, unrecognisable 
But the salt still stung,
As if death had forgotten about the pain of passing.

The silence of the world rested like mist upon my mind,
A common sobriquet, I know, but still one of its kind, 
Oh and the dark took it, and made me one of its own,
But I know not textures of such thoughts,
This enslavement comes from whispers;
Those slow daggers,
Aimed at my slower spine.

But I do dream beyond this shackled dream;
This walled precipice,
I carry out my sentence,
In a sense that makes me, my own judge and jury,
And weave myths,
For those who dip their finger in the wind,
To fold the fabric of the world,
One corner at a time.

Am I God?
The omnipotent earthling of heaven and hell?
The omnipresent search of science and eastern religion?
The omniscient questioner of Egypt and Israel?
No.
Perhaps, yes.
Perhaps, we all are a perhaps,
A song on the shore made from echoes of lost oars,
Each of us existing for the existence of other,
We each another’s child,
We each another’s mother.

Seems I have turned the men themselves into myth,
So, another life sentence for me;
I never learn,
And it is a gift.


Rowing Till The Riverbed

Let me fall now, no
Let me fade away instead
I am tired of being ever alone
Of being always afraid

I was a fool to grapple with the dark, you know,
A fool to light my heart on fire
A fool to eat the wounded ashes
To taste the honey of that sweet desire

I was blind with my eyes open
Blind to the water rising around my waist
Blind to see that I with my words
Was no different than the rest

So here I am now, here,
A face amongst other faces:
All fools condemned henceforth
To die; by hanging on her tresses

I should have known it, I should have
For it was no secret after all
That there was magic in her voice
And that it was a siren’s call

It was this damned dream, you see,
To be together in the end
So surreal that I forgot
It was all make-believe, a pretend

I am going now, I am gone
There are other lovers in the line
They ask me if she is a goddess
And I answer: Yes, if the Devil’s Divine…

Taste of Sunlight

Image by Riccardo Mion on unsplash


My bed is in the corner
Of an empty room
The irony is self imposed
But not without reason
I have heard that darkness
Gathers more in the deep
And perhaps it shall help me sleep
Faster than dying by lying wide awake
Counting seconds, falling and rising
With time’s unreceding tide.

The curtain hanging by my bedside
Often flutters in the night
And it’s breath though purposeless
Fills me with envy
By it’s act of pure motion
Sans a shred of emotion
How can I be more than me
When everything I seek I deny to see?

Dreams; they die, my own are no exception
Even when I have them
Caged behind a glass case
Cuddled in red velvet
Caressed by Mozart’s Sonatas
The flowers shall wilt, roots die and fruits decay
Nature by nature of unrequitance
Shall swallow none but one’s own
For birds do not nest on trees unsown
And those that I watch from the moonlit window
They shimmer and shine
Like gold and wine
Broken; yes and crooked and white
But they know unlike me the taste of sunlight.

Light From Another Star

The tommorow lingers far,
Like light from another star,
And there is mist,
With eyes in the middle,
That speaks with tears,
Of smoke and tar.

I talk not of human,
And their negligible nuisance of narcissistic necessity,
Nor of the world with it’s viscous veracity,
I speak of nectar, world of gods,
Poets and paramours, artists and art,
Of the innumerable sand,
Dreaming upon the beach,
And those stars falling every night,
Who never truly reach.

I speak of the brilliant acting dumb,
The sensitive roughened numb,
Blind men holding hands,
Children without a stand,
And oasis with scarlet seas,
Gold honey, dead bees.

I invoke the untamed,
I call the wild,
Into this land of frozen blood,
Where once were sowed diamonds,
Now remains but dried mud.

I know, my voice is hoarse,
And these sharp words are truly coarse,
For I too am of your kind,
The omniscient God without a mind.