Processions.

We have the grand eloquence of

Lighting the fire in our hearths

From the burning pits, they call, hunger of others

Others who aren’t my brothers

Everyday I wake up to a procession

In honour of the dead of the day, the first

The fire in him died out, how sad, the depression!

Though my house, for fire, shall never thirst

In idleness prized, I have written long accounts of tragedy

Of a war hero, of a pining heroine and of vanity

By the candlelight, night after night

 Candlelight carved out of those other’s last sight.

There is but one small complaint, I must admit

The other’s processions earlier were few and silent

Now, through midnights till midnights, the other’s commit

To a prayer of wailing and cries of avowed violence.

Ignoring, I write another account of a king who slept badly

Who was in love with summers, and madly

Satisfied, I go to sleep and the music returns

This time louder, threatening and I twist and turn

Today, I dread to try to sleep

I know today, they’ll breach the barrier

I know today, they’ll steal their fire

Fire fed off of their hunger

Light stole off of their sight

Their procession today carries no dead

This lacking, they intend to fill

, I go to bed

And I wait, anytime now, blink and I’m their kill.

Now my funeral, a burning pyre

Their baecon of victory

And I’ll dissipate to the sky, dying twice for fire

A threat to the world, a decree.

Inspired by a book read a year ago, ‘Hunger’ By Knut Hamson, though the book is of an another misery altogether, this rendering is of a misery that I see, no different from a very desperate attempt at keeping dignity intact, as is the motto of every person I have met, in these five years of conscious note taking.

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Deserted Old.

Once upon a time, this place

Was a desert of wind, a deserted race

Dwell-ed within.

But that’s just dust on a forgotten book,

Now, this place, is hardly the same.

Water flows, so does champagne

There is hardly  an ugly voice in the crowd

That could sing you to tears,  make you cry out loud

All I can hear, is delicate fingers

Playing the piano, wearing a perfume that lingers

All I can see is a flood of gold

And I crave and crave for my deserted old.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tease.

 

I smile at my memory’s gentle tease

Of pulling the taut string of a decade of summer

Sweating and happy, deep in debt, at ease

My poverty, my effective Armour

 

And one day, the Armour betrayed me

For once, it rebelled and choked me

What was once my strength, now my misery

And the debt, well, that is the start of the story

 

The story that sent me packing to this land

This land of sun, silks and sand

Loose rubies and sapphires running black

To let the world flow at their feet, they do not lack.

 

A decade ago, it pained me to watch

Silken silhouettes through glasses, that I was paid to wash

A decade ago, there was a debt to pay

And now, I want to scatter astray

 

To wander into forests deep and dark

To get lost in lands that are cut apart

To somehow make my way back to the start

So I could once again, be shackled in debt and be free of heart.

 

 

 

 

 

Factory worker.

Like a factory that never sleeps

I do all my three shifts

No increments, no gifts

I dance, I twirl around, I listen

To make sure the machines don’t make a sound

That they glisten

Glisten till I see my reflection smiling back at me

Sadly, dissolving in itself, like it should be

Satisfied I move on, to the afternoon shift

An afternoon of pacing around and thinking

A secret pleasure I indulge in, no one knows, my innate gift

They only know me as an ornament, pretty and glittering

Sighing I move on, to the night shift

Every night replicated in perfect uniformity

In bliss, in boredom I drift

Hoping, wishing and praying for a calamity 

A calamity that will wash the clockwork away

Away and out into an abyss where no human could stray

And I will be no more held by the world taking my attendance

And I will be no more a mere resemblance

Of my mother, her mother and her mother who bore no sons

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mistress of my dead priest.

 

 

Royally draped in silks of saffron

You serenade outside my window

You flutter about, begging for attention

Come what may, your praises must flow!

 

 

And they did flow, thrice a day

Thrice a day, he did bow

Father to my son, my husband

My moon and my sun, the reverend

 

 

Now you invade my house, in waves and crashes

Frantically searching, screaming for him

Your prayers will not be said, he has turned to ashes

Still, you search and search on a whim

 

Here’s a little story, child of the light

When you were gone and the hour was night,

His heart stopped beating, his eyes closed too tight

And now they wont open, go on try your might

 

I told you, little child of the light

Your prayers will go unsaid, it only serves you right

A widow’s curse, a widow’s plight

Is not another device of your delight

 

He was yours heart and soul

All I wanted was with him to get old

All I needed was for you to hold

His breath in him, a little longer, to keep him from getting cold.

 

You’ll come back every morning

And I’ll be sitting in your wake

You’ll see me sighing and mourning

And you will dread your fate.