THE HUMAN ANVIL

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…

  • Orison

    Image by Bahador @Unsplash

    Life has always been one dream
    Dreamt together by many
    And those Awakened will find
    No single mind
    Keeping count of any blasphemy

  • 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.