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.
I have never spoken of it. The secret, although not shameful on its own, makes me feel ashamed. It’s like being able to see among a group of blind people. You want to describe the beauty of the world or dissect the violence of a man’s motion, to complete the cracks of a woman’s expression but you can’t: without feeling acutely guilty. So, here I speak of it—
I preyed on promises Like a thoughtful vulture Of culture and cheap compromise For facade of feeling was important To alter the illusion That gift-wrapped horrors Are comedy of errors A reality divided By the cause and the causality: For a broken man Does not bleed in the mirror
(Perhaps heaven is a heart That is heavier to hold)
I know my poem feels like practice A frozen hand Combing through rough edges of life To even out the answers So music may appear Vibrating crystal clear A tear tainted with tear Like lyrics of King Lear Alas, this exercise Is not to exorcise any answer But to await and witness The silent decay Of solitude
(For has any mind every mastered The art of interrupting its own soliloquy?)
I thread my threshold; Some common words are never welcome, Words that suture out from chafed lips Carried over as gangrene For whom mind’s a myth And memory a mind Words that evolve as themselves Over and over A curated cancer called as a cure The next iteration The final step On life’s drowning ladder
(Do they know that the ocean Is deeper at the top?)
Beyond the compass needle I discover a horizon Painted in haste Made of waste paper And a pulverised sun It stretches-this myriad moment This suspended time This grotesque mask of shattering beauty Like a dragon’s yawn And near her maw I dance: daring death to dandelions Till the fire came Like algebra on music-sheet Unreadable Exquisite And I was reborn A particle Singular Similar A sinner
(I summarise in theory That a poem knows more of the poetry Than a poet does)
