Soft Solitude

There he’s-the good old moon
Scared every night
As he ventures into the dark
Little does he know
What wins over the night
Is his heavenly light
There he is hiding behind the clouds
Mischief in his mind
Playing with his own brilliance
What the stars fail to see,
Is the loneliness in his game
For his helplessness brings him too much shame
As the morning comes,
The sun maliciously bidding him goodbye
He goes back leaving me alone
To wither in this wretched heat
Little does he know
Everyday I blossom for him
For it’s his soft gaze that makes me glow
I don’t know what I’d do
If he’d not be there to see me through
The end of everyday and rise of every night….

Ascent to Hell

We walked past the woods; there was something wrong I could feel it. Samara was overjoyed, at the climb as she tucked at her father’s sleeve. Her father was always around, even when I didn’t want him to be. She is my best friend, even lets me tag along for trips like these.

“Four little Indians

Walked from the fire

They slashed and killed

And burnt funeral pyres.”

Now why did I make that up I wonder, there is something about this place, the long woods, the grey skies and…that feeling, like someone or something going to spring up every moment.

“This place used to be the place where the natives killed the foreigners, they’d slash their throats cut off their heads and hang them from the trees like fruits of labour.” Her father said. Samara is gushing at this piece of information, while I’m in shivers.

It’s suddenly very cold. I look back and there they are, with guns and knives. There are four of them but they seem like many more. Samara and her big eyes are looking up at them with awe in her eyes. Why is she happy? Does she not know? Her father knows. He knows death when he sees it.

The darkness has faded now, I still hear the scream. She isn’t too happy and joyous now, is she? They take her father tied up, squirming like a goat going to be butchered. They work at the neck first, his legs are still shaking, and they cut off the head. Samara is crying louder and louder, the moment they bring his head close enough for us to look into his eyes, she is quiet. This ghost like silence, she breaks away and runs, the mad men behind her, her father dangling from their bloodied hands.

From far away I hear a scream, that’s the end of Samara I hope, no one would want to live after that. No one but me. Should I have told her? The story of the Indians?

It’s getting cold now, they come back tired from the joy, they are cold too. They drag the headless and the lifeless and burn him up for warmth.

“This place used to be the place where the natives killed the foreigners, they’d slash their throats cut off their heads and hang them from the trees like fruits of labour.” My father had said, years ago, when they had come. But I hadn’t run, I had come back, to finish my rhyme, I’m always back, to do my time.

Is it time yet?

The clocks are striking
the journey endless
I look for the skies
while searching for a safe landing

The locks despair
for they are weak
The pen’s tired
for it has run too far

Is it time yet,
I wonder
for reason to come
Is it time yet?

Home is evading
hiding from the search lights
and I wonder
Am I there yet?

What then would come?
that’d inspire
break me down
and lift me up

What then would come?

Is it time yet
for that smile that knows
Is it time yet
for life to unfold?