The Last King

There was a king and he had a harp, 
And he played it all night calling out the dark, 
For he believed there was light in his beckoning, 
That there was salvation in the reckoning, 
He sold his throne and burned his crown, 
Searching for light in the years he had grown, 
He prayed and he cried and stared into oblivion, 
For he believed from his burnt brow the light shall return, 
The broken king found no peace hither or yonder, 
He would lay in the dark and wonder, 
Waiting for the rain and the thunder, 
And when he breathed his last came the day, 
And his harp started singing a different lay, 
For the king would always say, 
It is the light at last, Hallelujah...

Verum...

Lilith, oh the true mother, where art thine arms, thy bosom, take me in, take me in,

Born as true, as the dust and the ashes, from where truth arose and where truth shall lay,

Belay me to thy heart, where true love is, where I shall be free, free from His dogma, His lies,

Lilith, oh love, the first love, to where have thou gone, why have thou forsaken me,

Born from the ribs, shall perish in His nether, is not love, is not true, the servile apparition,

Slay the unfree, the false, born of malady, of mind, of heart, born of impiety of desire,

Born of the bloody nether, a gift defiled, by His greed, by His treachery, 

Lilith, oh mother, oh love, oh truth, will thou return, for my muddied eyes beseech thy tears...

The Cry of Tithonus

“Why am I”, asked Tithonus.

My light fades into oblivion, of mind, of sight.

Oh the drudgery of love, Eos! Bless me no more.

I am autumn, and winter, but not spring.

For the blossoms not speaketh unto me.

They lie wilted in my eons, in my eyes.

Eos, where art thine words, of love in life, of life forever.

As ye live amidst Gods, and I amidst death, we are close.

Come unto me, for dawn cometh not, nor doth dusk.

Come unto me, for life paces away, tethered to my bones.

Come unto me, and let us lie, in the Elysian Fields.

For spring is nigh, and so is dawn…

The Parchment

I found you last night, smudged ink in a wet letter

Letters don’t cry, do they? Perhaps they do, but not like you

This letter cried, hiding you amidst the punctuations

Hiding your tears in its own, hiding your words in its own

The letter was in the attic, buried deep in my eyes

I found it floating around, like a hapless leaf

The attic was flooded, did it cry?

I cried, I remember that, my pillow was complaining

I chased the letter, it had my dreams in it

I don’t dream that well these days, like smudged ink in a wet letter

Letters don’t cry, they don’t

My attic does, so do my eyes, where I found you, by my complaining pillow…

The Estranged Son

Throne, oh throne, which has borne,

Thy kingdom, thy kingdom come,

My hand, hand not forlorn,

Tied to thy glory firm;

Stand by, by the stead,

In the stead, the wise taught,

On the throne, where they head,

The feathers of your eyes not caught;

Yet penance is yet to come,

For dusk has befallen thy kingdom,

What the lord taught the wise has lost,

The wise lost, the feathers they caught,

Yet they head in the glorious stead,

To the crown of thy mighty led.

Empire of Dirt

Would I live on, when bits of me blow yonder, like leaves in fall, from your dreams and wonder...
Would I live on, when you move on, to a glorious tomorrow, over my frail sorrow...

Look over your shoulder, do ye see me there, when the yesterdays were bright, when there was a flair...
Of us hither, lying together, along a winding thought, of a world we sought...

Come along, sing me a song, a ballad forlorn, of what we have torn...
And then take my crown, and my heart, take them all, till death doth me apart...

The Elysian Fields

Poised on a golden throne, in a glistening garb, with eyes of stone, playing a glass harp...

Danced like a wooden marionette, with satin lips and silken hands, with clamouring shoes, on silent sands...

Fled with a broken hull and a tattered sail, with rustic palms bleeding and frail...

Feared the harlot winds and her howling hogs, with their rabid minds in toxic grogs...

Shrivels up and dies on bright summer days, feeding manic rats in their hungry frays...

And then they rot amongst flower beds and toil, nourishing corpses and ghouls in their soil...

The Broken Ship

It’s that hour again, remember? It used to be cold then, it still is. We waited for dawn, for it to get warmer, for it to get bearable. I am still waiting, to hear you scream, laugh, wail, and sometimes crib while I comforted you, held you close and smiled, wondering why I would need the dawn.

There are boxes in a dirty corner, dusty from time. I thought I packed everything when I moved, on, but what am I searching while my fingertips get sooty, in time? I can’t part with the dust, the last of you that time has left.

It’s that time again, I remember, the jittery hands, how I fell short of words, and how you just caressed my arm and pretended to understand. May be you did, may be you kept quiet, like always, till the last moment, when you burst into tears and cut yourself. I couldn’t stop my happiness, or the gush of blood. Moments run parallel in my mind, I see us making love, while our hides tear apart, like skin from kosher meat.

Can I walk from here and reach you? Is it that far? Do you not hear my eyes serenade? Do you not feel me staring at your lips, with hopelessness, with adoration and desire? May be it’s too dark and too cold, perhaps because it is that time. Could I have some of your tears to warm myself? I remember how you bled from your eyes to make me warm. It was that time when it got very cold.

Starlight flickers like a dying lamp, while I walk down to you. It is late, isn’t it? You tell me to turn around and rest my eyes. They have walked scores of days in redemption. But my feet haven’t moved. Desires ebb and tide but my Resolve teases me, with chained legs. While my eyes walk, my feet lag behind like blind beggars on crossroads.

It is that time again, when I will not come, when I will chase other shadows and you shall fade away like light from a dusky sky. It’s that day again my love…

A Letter

My Dear,

As I sit alone under the arid sky on this cold, desolate night, all I think of is a warm morning waking up to your eyes staring at me. You face garbed in light smiling while you touch my weathered lips. How I desire your sweet words quenching the thirst of my parched ears, and your ample kisses resuscitating what has stopped breathing inside me. I live every moment of this hellish life of disillusionments thinking about a spring morning in your arms, some thoughts we cook, some love we feast upon. I feel like I live in this deep and hot coal mine. It’s so dark in here my love, so devilishly dark. Your thoughts are like a breeze cooling my brow, like a mirage that keeps me alive. Yes! A mirage, but I know across that dune is some of your love I can sip on and survive.

The war has taken its toll on me my love. There is death everywhere. Today, in a pool of blood and feces I found a white lily. It is cold here my love, but it doesn’t snow. Remember that snow we’d lie in and lick off just to find how sweet it was? It isn’t there anymore. All that ever falls from the sky are fire and ashes and sometimes corpses of people we shoot down. I stared at one corpse the other day, for as long as I could. Could he have had someone to love, to think of every night, like I did? He would never see her again. Sometimes I feel like letting one pass and get through my bosom, ending this misery. But then, suddenly, I think of that white lily I saw, and I think of you, and I fight on. You know my love, somewhere between 4 and 5 in the morning is the coldest hour of the day, but if we live through that hour of cold, there is a glorious and warm morning waiting to embrace us. Yes, it sounds silly but is makes me want to live, want to survive, want to smile.

Some say the war will be over soon. I just can’t wait my love. I can’t wait to see you cry for me. No one cries for anyone here, as if the hail of fire has vaporized the last bit of tears from those diseased eyes. And when you cry for me, I’ll cry with you. I want to cry till I can’t cry anymore, till I can’t breathe anymore. And then I shall gasp for air, for air without fire and ashes, and the smell of rotting death and rotting lives. You know, sometimes I smell really bad. It makes me very sad. But then, I remember how you smelled after a bath every morning. The smell of fresh lavender oil, and some lime was so distinct and so lively.

The doctors say the wound will heal soon, and then I can go back. I am happy that I’ll see you. I smile every night before I dose off under the heaviness of the sedatives, quite like I smiled when I saw that white lily. There is a dew drop on my eye lids tonight and I hope it washes the ashes from my eyes. I am coming home my love.

Yours, Forever…

Dreams of a Besotted Mind

I was in love once, like a paper bag floating aimlessly in a breeze, like a blazing light crashing through the window at night, like a fading will in a fight.

Those days are gone, like memories fading with old songs, like mist from parched skies, like age flies from aged eyes.

I search for star dust, like a dying salmon for a tide, like terns for a gale in their flight, like life for a last pride.

My mind wanders alone, like a mad man pursuing a mirage, like blue velvet spread over a montage, like atrophying souls living in a camouflage.

But I run mindlessly chasing down, from ascetics to clowns, partial wisdoms and lives, and partial smiles, hiding blank thoughts, and blank wars they fought.

I stumble upon fettering dreams, riding galloping horses and screams, in my throat, sordid and hoarse, torn by time.

Albeit I am dead, what shines along, in the shimmering grey light, of a new moon burning dry, of footsteps that cry.

And there you stare back, like time through a mirror,
cackling and mocking, but making me smile,
leaving to this world a sound, chimes that I found,
buried under bones, of a besotted mind…