The Brushstrokes

It’s all a dream:

The lowest moments

And the greatest,

The imperfections

And the changes

Made by the mind

To what was by the mind,

Confused,

Created;

/

It doesn’t hurt, really,

When in my nightmares

Hungry demons

Gnaw at my bones

And rip to pieces

The magic heart

That every morning

I find unfailingly

Beating in my chest;

/

It is all a mirage:

This face, this body,

Their existence

And their ultimate

Disintegration;

There’s nothing wrong

With pieces breaking,

Cracks manifesting

On the unforgiving skin

/

Painted over

Emptiness

In thick colors

Of fear

Named and signed

By the artist,

‘Me’ –

Both as a sentence

And a key

/

To freedom

On Holiday

Today
All the prayers have gone unanswered;
The gods, it seems,
Have gone on holiday,
/
Smoking Cuban cigars,
Betting galaxies and lives
As they laugh and play
Russian roulette
/
Today
The world’s been left ungoverned;
The gods, they know
It’s too busy to rebel,
/
Selling and buying souls,
Some dirt-cheap, and others so
High-priced that even the gods
Must bargain for them
/
Today
All the dead’ve been left unburied,
And those who have survived
Have lost their minds;
/
There was no one to pray
To, and nobody to blame,
No role model to abide
By the rules of the game
/
Today
The world has all but ended;
Because the gods have gone
On holiday

Amnesia

Come and tell me who I am,

And I’ll believe you

I’ve forgotten who I was –

Or never knew

/

I am turning a new page;

It’s voidness scares me,

And I beg, ‘write something now,

Write something true’

/

Come and tell me that I’m not

What mirrors tell me:

That I’m not a cracked vessel

Of stale dreams

/

Not a little girl at heart –

With aging features,

Whose old world is bursting

At the seams

/

Come and tell me what you think

I ought to be now;

Write a page for me

In my unfinished book

/

I am almost done with it; perhaps

Another couple stories;

At the ones that came before

I cannot bear to look

Awake

Why did you have to wake me up?
Unhappy I was not,
Dancing with mists of Sleep
/
Since I remember, I have been
An unknown, a watch on the hand
Of Time, always counting something
/
My eyes – for much too long
They have been shut; now
How am I to open them to life?
/
Now that I have a body and a mind
To feed, how will I learn
How not to poison them with life?
/
Please, please, I beg you, leave me,
Ruthless morning sun!
The light unto the great book I can’t read
/
The book of life, written in every tongue
I do not speak, by someone
Much like you – the opposite of me