To you without love

A regular melancholic fit must be credited as the co-author of this piece. I have been very candid here and any allusion to artistic expression must be thought of as balderdash. This is a poem that has not been deliberated upon. It is raw just like the emotion it describes.

I am a heathen and-
like the heathen lords of old,
they shall burn me
when I am dead and cold.

It was not a question of how
rather it was a why;
that I loved you
and you didn't give it a try.
I know I cannot complain,
nor sing of beauty
when blood it rains.
The times are hard enough
and life obscure.
I wish I could have dreamt,
just to be sure.

And yet I was the wandering asteroid,
and you - the Queen Moon.
Alive in all her glory on a wintry night.
I could but look and cry for want of woe.
Were this something more, I an equal,
celebrating the good and the true.

Alas!
I am the flickering light,
ready to depart.
I wish I were more,
something more to you.

I wished that she could have loved me
but the Queen Moon was moot.
So I turned away, charred in the soot
of my naive ideas.
I had no light of my own.

It's your play Sun, I shall turn away.
You be together, I shall wither away.

The violent protester and his younger self

A first draft of a poem, fresh from the writing pad. I didn't worry about the rhythm and I think that I need to elucidate.

A world I never admired.
A place of fear and woe,
left burning amid the fire.
The wrongs of the perceived foe.

We were happy a life-time ago,
and now the carrion is calling.
In fear and anguish I bow,
lest I be burned
and my life comes down falling.

Now,
I can loot a million places.
This is the freedom I enjoy:
I can maim a million faces
Religiosity in the hearts deploy.

You must not provoke me,
my fury is great.
I shall the poison the sea,
and turn upon you the weapon-
Cold, calm fate.

So blasphemer, where shall you go ?
I will hunt you down.
I shall fight to extinguish the light,
The light - the breath of life.

Lost

"Come on", said my weary mind.
"Go back a little; rewind. "

In a field of rice, lush green
lay a patch of bare soil.
Perhaps a nightmare or a dream
of the farmer's hard work and toil.

There lay upon that patch of mud,
a withering form of clay.
And in the glaring sun it made,
a melancholic display.

The limbs were gone-
eyes were hollow sockets.
Long had its heart stopped beating,
yet some treasure lay in its pockets.

 It was paper - perhaps a letter.
Rotten as it was on this day
a hand had poured over it long ago,
it's toil lead astray.

I knew not what secrets it kept
nor harboured a feeling of pity.
But the sadness inside, long trapped
overbore, as I walked back to the city.

A nonsense poem on alienation

When I am old and weary,

the passions I have only dreamed-

to be are themselves lost.

 

When my thoughts have left my side,

or made up some demon in fright:
an imaginary friend – a strange delight.

When the years have blown away like autumn,

away all the signs of the living
and loneliness and death to my abode have come.
Then O hapless child take me home!

Home ? What home old chap ?

The land which bore your childhood,
Or the land that made you ?

Home, home I say

beneath towering mountains
besides the deserts grey.
Perhaps in a valley,
Perhaps in a shade
Perhaps, in a clear rill.
Or perhaps in your lone self.
That home of which you speak,
in ennui or numbed passion,
Of the time when I cry,
When I wake up to the starry sky,
Of emotion or passion think
Unfulfilled on the brink
And Lady Lazarus with all her charms.

When in the wisps of poesy I see,

as if I have drunk,
or allude to the same,
when no stars in the sky,
stare at me,
and the melancholy of the moment seizes
the act of thinking.

 It is that moment of which I speak

When all my joys are lost
Home is a place, a place to rot,
The people refuse to own,
The land itself pale and forlorn
and I’m homeless - carefree.
 Lady Lazarus come forth,
let me walk with thee.

Control

A quick glare in her eyes would reveal,
the passionate intensity with which she feels-
for all that is alive and thirsts for thought;
and goes about in the sunlight dreaming of naught-
but freedom from slavery; slavish souls can rot. 

Lingers the devil in his kingdom of lust,
deep copper green valleys unfettered by rust.
Scheming to bring down this aura of peace,
threatening to erupt; oh can he tease ? 
The anger wells up; cannot be released. 

Tell them to ask of freedom of thought. 
Reason is a curse the fires of hell wrought;
the devil dispenses it despite fear. 
Oh can I ask you to take a trip down there ? 
There crude emotion life does tear. 

"But we shall have absolute control. 
Freedom be damned; a tradition so old,
forgotten in the dreams of infidels;
hedonistic pleasure seekers shall burn in hell."

"My life is gone, mine eyes do tell " 

So said the devil seated at the throne. 
The torrents raged on, minstrels sang;
her eyes were empty - the church bells rang. 

May I inquire ?

When I was young they told me,
Child you shouldn't lie,
That it's a sin to die-
To kill yourself; see,
God has sent us to the Earth,
To see who worships him,
and to see who sins-
This is the purpose of our birth.
That we should live,
for the glory of God,
and now I think 'tis a fraud.
I do not know who I am,
or whence these insecurities stem

Who am I ? I don't know,
I define myself. Where do I go ?
How do I live ?
When I think, I have nothing to give ?