*

I’m a girl. It’s not easy.
Every wave shook me and then I cast away.
I wish I knew reason; what a concept:
These emotions I have. Every case is new.
A memory is as wild as a jungle in spree.
Name a boy, I am the one who sought.
Help me from the other side of stars,
I caught myself in a net of love amongst
The grieving and tearing soul to hold.
My ancestors gave free the choice I have,
Now I sing of misery and curse my heart calls;
It beckons me to go back and never live.
I have to die twice in order to live once;
It’s so true that I am the dodo in ill flight,
Whose only defence is the last it can fight,
Beautiful. So rain hell on me to a thousand.
Let all the fire burn the homes, the fields,
My family; my friends; my life; my soul adorned.
So give me a reason to live again to shine.
To tell the mirror upon whose note was shone,
A heart of eager miss can surely sound me here,
If I am to live and move on, it was all but fought.
A thousand ties and a thousand knots my soul is crossed.
No Bible, no Qur’an, no Torah can become my Exodus;
And there is a skin that breaks with blades anew.
All the sights of life now sing in dreams become.
The difference between wife and mother is me.

He

In the midst of chaos, he found his purpose; in the midst of woe, he found himself. In the midst of defeat, he found his vict’ry; in the midst of death, he found his life.
In the midst of thought, he found his reason; in the midst of fight, he found his right;
In the midst of knowing, he found his base; in the midst of God, he found his faith,
In the mist of loss, it was he who became lost; in the midst of now, it was he whom he shall know,
In the midst of past, it was he who became now; in the midst of song, he knew he was not alone.

My dearest, of all sights. Now comes a time when a man’s life suddenly ends, and then is never returned. But his ego will always return. It lives in the mantelpiece of that brain and casts aside all reason and thought; everything becomes in peril. Imagine being took by an unknown force and in order to live you ought your life to give. It was simple. It was the ego he had to give. The art he gave became the chance he diced. In muse besought, he wanted to be something better. For all men desire to be someone better, but none dare walk the steps that lead him to danger peril. But when he does, so shall he in desire fraught, so that any who knew him shall remember him for any he gave.

But I mention no further the calm, and the serene, and the moon that is but akin to star shine bright across the Earth. It is he who walks the day. His peace is the war of others. Your words ill-thought are but comedy to a man’s venture. And it comes to this when she becomes the man and you become the lady to sing in vital prose to understand the way of knowing and the ink that throws the fray.

No tattoos nor metal can break a man, nor make a man, nor fake a man, nor forsake a man, nor partake a man in restful hope of who he is and what he ought to be.
No meagre lie can make truth a man, nor loss whether in court or foe make better the art he ought to give.
Nor insults nor compliments can move a man without a value in the meaning he ought possess.
Nor fright and fear that his life be gambled and ought be shambled in the essence he once ought to live.
Nor exist in the lurks of others as demons true; he himself becomes the demon.

So cast aside all the worlds he himself sought, and so last in the now that all moulds himself he brought;
Nor kite the lingering feel, the emblem wheel, the chasing eel, the darting meal, the exiled zeal;
The harp is broken. The lark is dead. The art is led. Homer is said. A soma is fed.

His is the sum of all he knows; he is the product of all he endures; he is the difference between himself and foe;
He is the life he never had; he is the reality that brought him dread; he is the shout that calls him forth;
He is the new that brought him old; he is the love that brought him cold; he is the dove that brought him sold.

Train to Mars

Nor is it a random station,
Nor is it just any train,
This is now the train from hence,
This shall take you from hence,
The train, with no stop here to there,
Is but near to greater sort so fair
In price and of creed to depart,
From this place you are now in Mars,
Imagine all the orange and all the rocks,
Now look all around and see our train,
This departs and off to Earth it departs,
Now no human, now no alien, now no life,
You look all around and see no one,
Just no one, nothing, just nothing;
There’s no station, no government, no food,
No wine, no sight, no new light to calm you here.
Imagine, nothing. Just nothing. Just rocks and sand.
How beautiful that is? That no one is around?
I wish I lived there. No more drama. No more rife.
I don’t need hope nor fate to guide me now,
All I need is the rocks and sand.
Spare me the oxygen, my breathing is but poison to life;
Spare me the heat, for I am but heated mind beheld.
So, the answer is clear: a train to Mars.
And never come back.

Meaning

In pursuing a career he wanted to be that whom inspired him, she wrote. “So he decided to be, and then thus he became.” But in the words of his father, of late has taken illness, he could not understand why his own kind would not be that of his own kindred blood which by forsaken creed had suddenly consumed him. This sickly blood, she added, suddenly became an illness; the fatigue was too great. All was lost.

There he walked, in a mountain fought, and slowly climbed. Then he shrugged. Then he sobbed. It all seemed too much, all at once. He is no mountaineer, but he simply wants to climb a mountain. He was no man, but he hopes one day to become a man. This much, his mother wrote to her sister, who since recently was under a great melancholy for ill choices she made that could never be reversed. “Oh! I am sorry for all I’ve done! The men, the wine, and all the tricks I’ve endured. It was not to be.” Though, her brother might add that he would not want to be deserted by a woman just like his sister; but perhaps to be imbued with new wisdom as to how to live with one.

Near the mountain peek, gossip for months soon called at bay. For months, our dear fellow climbed a metre closer to the tip; as much as each day his mind felled closer to the dip. It was like he wanted to break himself so that each piece can be collected overtime then brought together with each piece part of a new image that formed the basis of his own. Though the pieces have not changed, though the image has changed, the very essence upon which these images carry is now part of something greater. That greater essence became his meaning. It became his life. In essence, his life is the sum of why. Life no longer ceased meaning; it augmented the story.

His mother closes the letter with a solemn wish that once her son reaches the tip of a mountain he may at least come down and never return to the tip. “For what it is the base without its peaking stone?” He would ask. So casually it was, but she could not even answer, for she has never travelled the heights he would. Sooner or later, he would know the answer and once he does, he would have part of the meaning he needed to live.

Her Meaning

But I say not, but then I mean so,
Words I could never dare describe,
Mine heart with sorrow gone too late,
With drooping eyes with tears of glass
Could never tear through silken thread,
Nor the lonely steed to pass me by,
In lonely mountain waste I am spent.
These arts of utter grief lay barren,
Th’ease of woe in loss came so soon, Read More

Leave the Past

Ah, the sweet, smooth and sound past,
Like wine uncorked and drunk so fast,
With sweeter chimes of happier notes,
With bitter blots for known undertones,
Can only suffice the effect one sitting,
This drink of my past is mere bloodletting,
Leave it. Leave it. Go away. The past. Go.
The wine. The bottle. The glass. Throw.
Every drop of wine becomes blood vanquished,
I sit here and dream of past relinquished,
The beast within is the angel above,
The demon is the answer to my resolve,
Give me more, the past I need it more,
However I drink it, let me be so sore, Read More

Two Men

“Why?”

He poured another glass. It was only water. Somehow it seemed fair that both had an equal glass of which. Both times they drank and felt the ice touch their lips. With each shock of cold came a lipid flame that overcame their senses. The sun would shine, but not on them. It seemed like time stood still. As though the light suddenly bent through shadow and collapsed in an ethereal chamber that halt the glow of the stars between them. As soon as one spoke, the single noise would give shade to the forbidden. No more shall light cast these thoughts to burn. With every sip came a new thought. As though the water had something different in it. Nor diseased. Nor poison. Nor drug. Nor timid.

But more questions asked are less answers raised. For so bitter are the stares; a bitter tournament awaits. These men were hollow. They stared out through the light that permeated through window and concrete. This city they knew suddenly became the very silhouette of their unbecoming nature. Nor birds would fly without seeing them. In each gasp of air they breathed came new fulfillment sought. For both they and other men know their complex ways. To create is thus to destroy.

The very poison shall be this water: the one substance they drink with no taste, but to taste their inner selves. Though sweeter lips shall ripen its taste.

And the moon shall gush through solar wind and cast itself in Earth’s shadow. And he shall rise and cast himself to corner swept in little light he gazed. Their thoughts in lieu of past and hope fallen; no more is taught ere less is fought. In war and peace their actions known. In one side is war, another for peace. Another for ally; theirs the enemy of theirs.

Though suited both and booted, but barbarians would dress better. So fewer masks are crafted is less than they. And cards would play with joker raised. With each reverse their mask is shadow; nor Anonymous can credit their deceit with ill-got thought. Nor men of past shall be boys of future. Their offspring the sight of woe. Their posterity the appeal of ignorance. And their ancestors the apparel of loss.