Firstly I would like to make some things clear. The poem below is a reply to the poem “Murder of Love” written by Vivek. It seems that I have an inherent obsessive compulsive disorder to write poems (which, truly said, is actually, rubbish prose) in reply. Please forgive my futile attempt as just what it is. I don’t mean any disrespect to Vivek or to the poem he wrote. And the funny thing is that, he seems to like this, don't know why.
Love Mur ders
The birds are returning to their nests –
So are the men to the concrete boxes.
The sky is holding back -
Not the rays of the sun,
But the darkness
Of the ur
Both are the same.
Black and white.
End is near.
Its just reflection, ain’t it?
O feel! The mourning breeze blows.
They say its silent.
It just wants to be heard.
Once.
She clasps her hands onto mine,
It feels cold now.
The search is futile – nothing in her eyes can I see anymore.
Not even myself.
In the deep dark abyss of her hypnotic eyes
I drown
In the water of my own tears.
No.
None sees them.
Its all deceit I get in return.
Its open now.
No secret left unknown,
No stone left unturned.
I can feel f***ing nothing.
Yes.
Those twins are beautiful.
Like the black holes which people say exist.
They exist there,
In her eyes.
The ocean I once saw is dry now.
The salt is left.
It rubs my wounds.
Up and down.
Up and down.
Where is that She which was?
Not in those lustrous blade-edged eyes.
Not in the saccharine poisoned words.
No.
She is not even in the false peace of her innocent face.
My hopes are too high.
She possessed my soul.
Consumed me in totality.
But then she left.
Threw me away like those roadside flowers when they get stale.
Ensured the end of my life.
Content I should be with what I got –
A grimace, an abuse.
A dollop of hate.
No one belongs to us.
Neither do we to someone.
Not food are we,
Neither are we ornaments.
We are just the mud that with the lotuses blend.
Through days and nights,
Through eternal sorrow,
Through death alone,
We wither.
In secret.
But put up dirty worn masks to hide the rotting within.
Countless times we run about in the Karmic Cycle.
Only to find ourselves at the same place - again.
With the knife of desires,
We are cut.
Piece by piece.
We thought we were all here to love.
Sufferance is all what we got in return.
It is long we have fallen in love.
Now let us
Rise.
Rise from the waters that intend to strangle us
And drench us in love.
Its all false.
There is no Fountain of Hope in the places you seek.
Pierce our souls with the prongs of sin.
And let us live.
Even it be through death.
If it doesn’t hurt, it isn’t love.
3 comments:
a sense of maturity in a dark sombre and very aggressive ..poem ..
eto ta ... ekta hurting wound er moto laglo ..poem ta ..very interesting !
Thank you!
the BEST post in the last few months,... giving every other writer his or her share of respect.
SUPERB!
yeah!
suffering is the return of desire.
..hope we were buddhists.
go on mate.
don't stop.
u have a VERY bright future in Writing.
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