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…

Rebirth

I can't feel anything...
Nothing, no love, no anger... Anxiety sometimes, no excitement...
Everything moves slow, unidirectional, with monolithic, cuboid obstacles, looking all the same, brown, may be grey... The sky and the ground, tempered in a way to reflect each other, shades of crimson, but dull, faded... Crimson skies mate with crimson earths, but at night the earths fade away, but the skies stay, until the crimsons return, cavorting around the cuboids, the unidirectional flows, the illusions...

Coming Back to Life

Here I wait for you, across the tide, the ebbing, cascading colours of my hopes and desire, like waves just dying at your feet on a clear white shore of your eyes...

Teardrops

Teardrops on fire burn all night;
They burn bright, with a blinding cold flame,
They burn all my dreams and some images laid in a stupor,
The ashes lie in one corner of my muddled vision,
 
Teardrops on fire trickle down my mind;
And burn thoughts of you, bright and radiant,
I cry aloud when the teardrops scald me deeper,
Douse those tears with some more tears,
 
Teardrops on fire shed at night;
Glowing in my eyes like hope, like life,
Showering down on some parched lips,
Like flames on a dry petal,
 
Teardrops on fire burn all night;
On my brow on my might…

Crystal Dreams

The night glitters like eyes inebriated with love, like a mind wandering on a river of moonlight...

And here I am, staring deep in the dark night, dark and wavy...

Like thick, fragrant smoke slowly embracing me like wind blowing away some dry rose petals...

The night glitters like a crystal laced dream floating in my waking eyes...

And I lie beneath that dream, gazing at it in awe, in despair....