The Pitcher in the Pit

Ah, the clouds, those lucky sheep!
Whence came their silver lining?
Is it the rain these bastards weep,
Or is it the sun that keeps them shining?

Wonder, wonder, and take those dawns
That sit beyond the darkest hours,
Whence the sentry, night or morn
To watch from over the lightless towers?

Questions! Air! Their takers none—
Who questions God and nature’s will?
Nay, none, my prayers are done,
But I have one wish that lingers still.

As I harbour hell at my journey’s orgasm
And marvel unaided on this fall so sheer,
I wish my screams don’t meet a chasm,
But drown instead in this pitcher of beer.

The Wind That Left

The wind, you say, old friend,
The wind that walked athwart my face…
I wonder, yes, now past its end,
I wonder now… I miss its trace…

The stars, you think, were all I saw,
The stars that blithely blinked at me…
And yes, perhaps, that was my flaw,
For now their presence gives me no glee…

Yes, yes, you sound so right, so true,
The wind was why I desired to dream…
It cared, caressed, and never fled from view;
It was me, my faith, and my reason, it seems…

Oh, but this last thing you seem to trust,
This, my friend, you fathom not, and go amiss…
For I knew, was aware, as much as stars, of dust,
And of the wind that left, aloft my last innocent kiss.

Of All But One That Love Be Made...

A flower, if, let it be a lotus;
A song, my dirge, my egress;
A season, then fall—for it ever does;
Or a colour, if, be black, no less.

A flower, if, let it be a lotus
For not the beauty but the span
Of the leaf that floats, below us,
Be my lover, and me, her man.

But a message, if, be it on her breath
A song, my dirge, my egress
To void—the dream of dust and death—
Be she my fatal seductress.

Gold it be, hope it must,
If, being fruitless and frail, it be
A season, then fall—for it ever does—
Be to every twig of every me.

But of all but one that love be made
A zephyr or a zest as He may bless
Be a feeling, if, let it be no shade
Or a colour, if, be black, no less.

The Pilgrims of Shadow

The rising sun shall sights receive
As million smiles, each bright as day
And yet, not one shall bring reprieve
To the ones that sit and silence pray

To them the twinkle of tooth and eye
And that fleeting fill of open hearts
That curve of lip, that eyebrow high
Shall bring a hope that swift departs

Pilgrims all, they sleep in verdant shadow
Wile willing the vital will of the wise
The sun they warm, its worth they know
While waiting, whispering, for its demise

To death, and night’s syrupy inception
These wrinkled minds will rise to fall
At last maintaining His will be done
For in Adam’s sin, sinned we all.

Reflection

There's crimson, though only
In the veins beneath the white
There's a reason, known only
To the ones within his sight

This mirror is just his brain
Baffled, bereft and nearly dead
Reflecting what seems to remain
Battered, not broken yet

His buckling knees look weak
How long before he stalls...
His face, his poise of wood
How long before it falls?

He looks at those eyes
Those veins that rivers run
That face, those knees
And that poise so primly spun

Courage, he thinks, my hands
He looks and they are fists
Raises them both, says fight
And re-enters his world of wists

My Little Princess

It's just that you are
My little princess,
Just that you are
My life, and no less

That my eyes lie
For ever in your search
And that my eyes lie
Ever for your mirth

That my lips part
To whisper endlessly
And that my lips part
To kiss you soundlessly

That my fingers burn
Waiting for your freezing skin
And that my fingers burn
In sating the seethe within

That my heart stops
At every sight of you
And that my heart stops
Each night you turn to blue...

You are after all
That's after your score
For you are, after all
The princess I adore

So all that, in strict cahoots
To wither this confusion
Takes me, in strict cahoots
Hither, to this conclusion

That my princess, in her life
Should always keep a while
Where my princess, my life
Should always be a smile.

Sunset in a Coffeehouse

Drawing on my iced eskimo,
Turning a mid-day paper too,
This evening, beaten, zilch to show,
I sit and stretch, not much to do.

The smoldering sun sees me stare...
That rascal, damn!, it mocks me so;
A sip, a read... no good, I bare...
My rest undone, my specters flow...

I reflect a little, and wonder more
On how wondrous everything would be,
If every morn, a brand new door
Could hold beyond new sights to see...
If every dream could form and shape
Our deeds today, but never last,
And every night could mean escape
From highs and haunts of hours past.

If we could all be wholly free
From every trailing thread of yore...
If morrows could have no memory
Of what happened just a day before...
Imagine, oh, that paradise
Devoid of angels, and devils dancing behind...
A place where you are only wise
To the eternal sunshine of your spotless mind...

A smile arrives, a whisper leaves
But fogs my vision... it's turning cold...
My eyes unfreeze as winter weaves
And kills my specter's slippery hold;

The sun has set, its sunshine gone
And I return to my tubelit coffeehouse...
My wishes resigned, my eyebrows drawn
In memory of my constant grouse...

I wish...

I wish this morning
Was warm...
I wish... I meant
No harm...

If only my dreams
Were true...
If only... the truth
Could do...

If only I was strong
And sane...
If only... I could
Abstain...

I wish these drops
Were dew...
I wish... my wishes
Were few...

The Moon Maiden

Her eyes wander, search and pore
Seeking wonder, and peace once more
Desiring truth, wishing to be wise
Hoping for a day as this to rise...

I
The Garden

There are flowers everywhere: some planted on purpose and some servants of their own wild wantonness. The girl is fond of both, but this evening calls, in some indescribable way, for the latter. And so, after swinging the little wicker gate open and listening to the creaks die out as ever, she heads straight for the left corner of the garden, where her favourite flowers grow in profusion and a raw splendour of their own.

Once there she sits on the marble ledge and lets herself the deepest of breaths. The aroma gently enters her, and the smile that ignites her face moments later is proof enough that it fulfills her too. Her eyes, closed of course by now, open for a few moments and take a look around. She is surrounded by flowers of all the same variety, one which she is unaware of, despite all her worldly knowledge. They are lilac in colour, and black in fragrance. And just as every other time, she feels that there is no more to know of them, that this is all there is.

She closes her eyes again and turns her face upwards. Her hands, reclining on her lap thus far, slowly begin to rise. They stop a little above her midsection and it looks as if she beckons to the world to come see her and comprehend what she means when she says she is different. They stay like that for a few protracted seconds, and then move on, to her face and then over her head and outwards. Her lips part infinitesimally, and a sigh seems to escape them. This final state looks much more complete, much more the way she is meant to be. Her up-turned face seems to be talking to the evening Sky, and her hands appear to make a reasoned request... perhaps for it to take her away, or else, to come down and be her friend.

II
The Sky

I am dusk. I am red in hue and purple in purpose. I bring an end to brightness, but I promise not just the dark of night, but also the dawn to follow. I am good-hearted, and totally innocent.

Today, there is a girl sitting in a garden, asking me to aid her. I, the Sky wearing its twilight robes, by myself, can do nothing. But I do have messengers, agents who can symbolize assistance. Now, let me think what this girl can possibly find of help. The more I see her, the more I am reminded of something... someone, in fact. She looks a trifle removed from the rest, and I think I know her from someplace else... And... Oh! Of course! Sweet Master! How could I have missed it? Well... if that is the case... the solution is simple... but oh, let me stare some more, for a sight of such vaunted rarity is hardly one to let pass...

I think I should now progress to my task of finding her an aid, which, by the way, is the simplest of all the tasks I've had in my life as the Sky. This is hardly even a search, to be true. This is destiny, and there is nothing more decided than destiny. I scatter a handful of clouds and let the earth flood in half with silver, and I am done.

The girl's eyes open and meet me. Not me precisely, but the gift I just delivered: the Moon.

III
The Graveyard

Rest is passe. Rest is irrelevant. Rest is for those who aspire to live. His shadow is more solid than his self, and the evening has missed his presence completely. No more, though, for his stench will soon be unmistakable. It is a special night for him, simply phrased, but full of the joy of unquestioned power.

He floats to the end of his journey, blacker than thought and swifter than speed. The gates to the graveyard open of their own, for he has his own winds at command. A few yards inside, he finally lands, touching the earth with his fleshless feet, and setting an imperceptible tremor into action. His body takes tangible shape, and his quasi-human hands acquire a staff of symbolic finality. No vision can decipher him yet, but for those who will whenever he so desire, he wears a blameless hooded robe of the purest white, closed at the waist by an iridescent waistband . This is supposed contradiction, but true knowledge is scarce.

Silent as his winds he progresses, and reaches his corner of choice. The girl is seated on her gravestone already; his job has half been done. But his presence itself is testament to the occasion: this is no normal night, no commonplace end to the life of another day. No, he can't simply steal. He would have to do more. He would have to show this girl a dream from his land of lifeless imagination.

And so he does. Like lightning he picks her up, and touches her forehead with the tip of his staff, to take her away for the last time before omega. This act, as every other time he has had to visit this hateful place full of life, gives him a thrill beyond measure. He waits staring at the staff-tip, his invisible eyes burning with anticipation-- he is about to know whether he came in time...

A faint, quivering light awakens at the staff-tip, and his eyes glow in return. He was in time, after all-- as ever, and he now accepts this as his right. He now believes he can never not be in time, for he, the Angel of Death, is time.

With a wave and a flourish he takes her away, into her dream and his.

IV
The Dream

Her talk to the Moon interrupted with a smooth flash of surreality, the girl finds consciousness next in front of a brick structure she seems to remember. She is unable to strain her memory at present, though, so she reads her bearings instead. She is improbably dressed in white, but it is not the colour that is her primary reason for disbelief: she wears a bridal gown of exquisite make, simple and deadly in that very quality. Inspite of all her befuddlement, the girl smiles.

She looks up, and remembrance strikes like a clarion call. This is the building in the centre of the garden, the building that is in fact the cause the garden was built: the chapel.

There is no one around, no one to explain to her the happenings of the last few moments, but that seems no bother, for she knows there is just the one thing she can do. She takes a few steps forward and enters the chapel through its simple wooden doors.

It is dark inside, but the Moonlight filtering in through the high windows is enough for her to keep walking. Her left hand, by her sides thus far, now rises to display the bunch of black roses she carries: roses that not only smell of nothing in particular, but of nothing at all.

The aisle is reached, and her true walk begins.

At exactly the count of seven a choir starts to play. It is easy to recognize the song as a symphony of despair. Music never stays floating around the girl, and as she walks she lets the notes steal through her walls. In moments she begins to cry, but her sobs are inaudible even to herself, and she walks on.

As her legs take her forward, her life plays through her mind. Blinking sparks of memory and sentience show her the picture of her mother holding her crying after a failed examination, of the Virgin cradling baby Jesus in her arms, of her father entering the house with a puppy as her birthday gift, of the peace and unwavering faith in the illuminated eyes of the Magi painted on the ceiling, of her sister smiling and hugging her in return for her daily gift of picked flowers, of the twin candles by the Holy Sculpture burning with life and defiance, of the moment when she uncertainly kissed her first lover, and of the tales of holy love impressed on the chapel's windows. These images fill her with hope, and the girl feels less of her tears with every passing moment...

Soon the rows of pews are outnumbered by her steps, and the altar is upon her. She stops. Soaked with life by her tears, her gown has begun to glow. She is smiling still, and there is something decidedly wrong.

Behind the altar stands her groom, dressed in a suit of blameless white. She looks at him with her unfaltering smile, and his own, unshakable so far, falls a distinctly observable notch. The music turns sadder still, seemingly attempting to mask the growing incongruity. But to no avail, for the sum of the smiles has started to look constant as the guiding star. The rolling tears are constant too, but the girl seems not to care. She begins to walk again, and climbs the steps to the altar.

The groom relinquishes his stillness and approaches his bride. They meet in the centre of the space, and the music stops. The tears do too, and in the quiescence that follows, the marriage vows are silently exchanged, eye to eye. The man pronounces the girl his wife, and girl him her man. And then, in an absolute retraction of expectance, the girl pulls her groom by his suit and kisses his lipless mouth, seeming to drink his soul from him. The man, taken aback, recovers and kisses her back, for he believes this is still another fait accompli. With visible passion they stay intertwined, apparently consummated in matrimony. The groom's eyes, invisible till this moment, begin to smolder like embers in waiting. His task seems done.

The girl suddenly breaks away, still smiling, and the next instant pulls the curtain off the pinnacle of impossibility. Considering there is no crowd to receive her bouquet of black roses, she, with every ounce of force she can muster, thrusts its end into her groom's heart. Her fate seems fulfilled.

There is no blood, finally as expected, and the man falls without even a whisper. He has been defeated in a manner numb to belief. The altar resonates with a thud as he hits the ground, and lays on his back. The black roses protrude from his lifeless heart, and look infinitely more beautiful than his anguished countenance.

Death can't die, just as time, and so his pain is forever. The girl, looking down on the man she just married to destroy, keeps smiling. The music returns, and this time it is spring music.

V
Destiny

A garden one moment, a graveyard the next. A ledge in one world, a tombstone in another. And then a chapel in each. The dream is done, and the girl wakes up at the stroke of midnight, having had perhaps the most peaceful sleep of her life.

The Moon is shining still, and so is her smile. The Sky had erred in interpreting her call as pleading. Death had been wrong to think he had come in time. And if anyone had not been mistaken, it was the Maiden's Moon, when during their conversation as fated lovers, he had said--

"Death shall kiss you tonight, be sure to kiss it back."

It was only destiny that Death arrived the very next moment. Only destiny too, surely, that he perished in a dream of his very own desire. And perhaps, as the Sky had so fondly remarked, there is, in all we know, nothing more decided than destiny.

Presently, the Moon and his Maiden recline in voiceless conversation, and Death, equally silent, lays vanquished nearby in his flowered pool of bloodless ruin. And as the curtain to this tale descends, the night Sky, ever efficient in part, gently smiles, twinkles a smattering of stars, and looks on.

Love

Oh how I remember, and how can I not,
The fire inside the heart of that night...
That night, when you were the fire, and hot
Beat my heart, ignited by your sight...

Drunk loose on whiskey, the floor was taken
By people parading in countless pairs,
And I scarce remember how, and when
My girl acquired my woman's wares...

I left, and you came, still duly dressed--
For the ball on course some yards asunder--
That hardly lingered, as I had guessed,
And hardly left a lot to wonder...

Oh how I remember, now that I track,
The way I touched your arms at first,
And also how you touched me back
To let my binding bubbles burst...

Unlaced to bareness I took you in
My arms and let my fingers run
To places where they had never been
And traces that they had never done...

Madness, yes, that followed soon
And my lips were on their lawless tour
Your grace, oh yes, that was a boon
And your moans no less my cue for more...

Oh how I remember, my gusty excesses
And the wantonness of every wile
The lusting scratches, the cups and caresses
And the killing joy of kissing your smile...

In time you turned a party too,
And made me a toast of giddy delight...
With every stroke you struck it true...
With every rub you rose my might...

A treat it proved, lovely so,
And a specter when the night turned wise,
At last as you let my pleasures go
To the end, and their climactic surmise...

Oh how I remember, that brilliant pause,
When the coming cause met consent,
That moment, as how to murmured applause
Your depths accepted the love I meant...

My Silent Disarray (S#1)

When mornings gray from pouring skies, and eves
Surrender to the risk of hail and rain,
When drains spill over with earth, and sodden leaves
Remind me in parts of pleasure and pain,
When naked streets fall free of wand'ring feet
And let remain the hasty brollied heads,
When vision waves in dimly crystal beats
Of stupor laced with still reflective threads,
When lucid drops stream my staining window-
Glass, and wily winds lash it now and then,
When the world outside kins in close a show
And my clouded self scatters nascent ken,
Single I survey my thoughts take away
Through bliss, and ache, to silent disarray...

Two Angels on a Pin's Head

Angels, my angels, my maidens sweet
How come you dance in two?
My love, my hate, my nervous beat
How come they chance in you?

My lovely ladies, the wings I wed
How come you smile in turns?
My wishes parading on one pin's head
How come my still heart yearns?

My fiercest friends, my fondest foes
How come I know not which?
My twinkling stars, my gifts of rose
How come my white is pitch?

How come... how come...
How come you number two...
Speak, my angels...
Tell me which one is who...

Oh! I see, yes, now I see...
Your quiet oneness now I feel...
You're one for life, and one for me
And two for my pin-head's even keel...

My Id and my Ego, one each there lives in one of you...

The Fallen Moon

I talk of a man who lived on a street, numbered sixty-nine
His life unlaced here in verse, a deed through every line...

In the shadows lingered this man, a stranger to sense and time
Forlorn, forsaken, blessed, but just with a bleeding rhyme...

The darkness was his angel of strength, his guide through every alley
And his friend alone his song, that terrible and tuneless melody...

His early days were lost in thoughts, all filled with death and strife
Walking soon was all he liked, and the night became his bread and life...

And so one night as deathly black as new, as he walked no course he cared
He struck a corner, swung to his right, and lo! the moon was bared!

To a man born on New Moon's Day, accustomed only to night
This was a shock, a haunting tragedy, an unbearably twisted sight...

Till when he opened his blinded eyes, and saw the girl in red
Standing still straddling the street, cradled in the Full moonshed...

Still dazed a little the man proceeded, humming on his only song
But the woman was singing too, and he knew his notes felt wrong...

He stopped, silenced, staring unbroken at the lovely singing specter
Blinded went bedazzled soon, and he fell enslaved, in love with her...

A few more steps and he held her, she sang and let him be
He framed her face and kissed her, she smiled and he could see...

A dream was duly born, his life turned over from night to day
And soon his wish was singly termed, that his crooning lady stay...

Haloed by the moon, the black man held his girl in red
Standing still no more, waltzing to her song instead...

A wave to the right, a twirl and a twist, fingers laced throughout
Eye to eye, dreamspun both, they whisked their way about...

Each step brought them closer by, till at last he breathed her breath
When damaged fate met fated life, and the scent at once turned death...

He held her closer, tried not to breathe, and waited for verve again
His dream was dying, too soon and fast, as if it was ever in vain...

He wished his love would see this too, and sigh them a saving whisper
And so he stayed, in love in her arms, a slave to his singing specter...

But the night proposed no novel fact, no grace to rescue love and lives
The woman closed her eyes and crooned, the man kept dancing her in strives...

And then a moment passed and two, and suddenly the mad moon exploded
Fragments showered the man in black, and touched the lady robe in red...

The fallen moon was theirs to keep, but wisdom came a shade too late
For no life yet had the lady breathed, and the man couldn't mend her broken fate...

And when the darkness returned, the black had bled to shining red
The red had rusted to scalded black, and the couple in arms was newly dead...

A Name To Call Me By...

Restless I rise, formless I fall
I am ugly and I make you cry
Your dams I break, your floods I stall
I am faceless... I'm the morning sky

Your friend in the dark, your foe before
I am a cherub you fail to hate
Your fire on the rocks, your moon on the shore
I am a nimbus... forever pregnant in state

Your canvas to colour, your tumbler to fill
I am a riddle you live and breathe
Your Sirius, your sun, your distant hill
I am vapor... and I never cease to seethe

Formless I fall, restless I rise
I am a djinn who drags you by
Your slave and your master, your constant guise
I am nameless... can you wonder why?

Back to Black

Here I am,
In your arms again...
The door was locked, but I was true
And here I am, I've come for you...
My dark heart bleeds, don't speak of him,
For here I am, and I've come for you...

You light yourself a cigarette
The day's last smoke, you say
You watch your demons rise
To where the angels sway

The sky is dying red
And the blue moon's shining through
It's darker than my heart
But I see the black in you...
So be my guest, let me fill your cup
And you'll know I am a raven too...

You smoke your rings of air
The sunset called, you say
You watch your angels die
And let the demons sway

You love me not, and you love me still
I could say that in the rain
Lurking close, by your window-sill
I could see you in your pain
So know I know, for know I do
That black is gold, and I know it's you...

You kill your stick and stop
The stars are stern, you say
You make your demons run
And have your angels stay

Here I am,
In your arms again...
The door was locked, but I was true
And here I am, I've come for you...
My dark heart bleeds, don't speak at all,
For here I am, and I've come for you...

A Journey to Blood and Beyond

New blood flowed, and a child was born
As the heart of life went heavier still
The sun came out, killed the dawn
And the tale-tip tore its vacant quill

Crisp and quick the morning went
The child unlearnt his worldly ways
A smile his world forever lent
To him as the dreamer dreamt his days...

Midmorning yawned, smiled and when
The hours slept, all snoring by
The boy woke up, ringed by men
In the garden of the tornado's eye

Higher rose the sun, firmer went its hue
Noon befell the stallions of the storm
The earth emerged in green and blue
Far more a presence, far more a norm

Quickly through evening these hours passed
The squall began to set the sun
And the boy now turned a man amassed
Who ate his toes while on the run

The sky turned sore, its wounds unlaced
The scarlet sun wept out its rust
The black of day to crimson raced
And the boy beheld his bleeding dusk

Wasted thus his heart would kneel
And pray for the dark of night
When the moon is new, and monsters squeal
When his scarring sky is out of sight

The end would come, the stars would show
The blood shall dry and be drunk
The door shall close and the sea shall grow
To where the ship is duly sunk

To let it go... and let it be

No matter what, no matter where
No matter how much I try
I do it right, all sqaure and fair
And yet, alas, some demons don't die...

I trust, I believe, I let it be
I make it my vow not to break
I know, I learn, I beg to see
The line I walk, and barely shake

But no matter what, no matter where
No matter how much I cry
I end up wrong, all rent and bare
And yet, alas, my demons wont die...

I twist, I turn, I let it go
For I can fall and love you too
I know, I learn, I yearn to show
And I'll say it now: I'll see it through

Sickness! I'll hold on...

Sickness, be me!
I can’t bear you so close…
Sickness, free me!
It’s you I chose…

A hundred lies and more,
Each day and every dying dusk,
Plague me, rip me, leave me unsure
Of all but that in you I trust…

Sickness, see me!
I’m blacker than midnight blue…
Sickness, free me!
For all I have is you…

The rivers that winked in the moon
Wink still, but bleed no faith
And the angels that used to swoon
To whims, writhe resting now in wraiths…

So sickness, empty me!
Drink from my deserts of rain…
Sickness, oh sickness, free me!
These shackles only pretend of pain…

Undressed by you I shiver through
Nights that spoke of oneness once…
Naked yet dressed in crimson hues,
I wait in wake of the million suns…

Feel me, my love, feel me till I die
Be there from dawn to dawn
Kiss me, cut me, get me screaming high
To you, undead, and I’ll always hold on…

When the Moonlight Broke Free...

Orphaned earth, dreaming of the moon,
Yearning, wondering where it went so soon,
Sees a flash, of a sudden, and the coming of dawn,
And a young man walking, on and ever on

There’s light, a lot, but just a promise of the sun,
And he’s walking, alone, as just the one
Of a thousand thoughts he’s keeping company—
A thousand that the night can’t seem to see

He’s lost, he knows not where he goes;
He’s tired, he knows it scarcely shows;
For just as a child, clean and yet to be cheated,
He struggles, to win, he’s never been defeated

It’s getting cold, the wind has a chill
And his snowball grows, rolling up the hill;
Heavier, each moment, and just beginning to see
This climb is steeper than any in memory

He’s being what he’s never been;
He’s seeing what he’s never seen;
It’s not done, not yet, but nor is he;
The end to his story is yet to be

He sweats; he wishes his tears to be lost
And he wishes some way he could melt the frost;
Not that the snow is blinding, but it bleeds
And he hates the pain it newly seeds

It’s a challenge, maybe, a wrinkle on his way,
Much like the moonless morning of a sunless day
When you live the dream, and feel the promise
Of a smiling end to the frown there is

Not all, he knows, can always be right
And not always does he wish for a dawn to the night,
But this once, as he walks, he wishes for more;
He hopes he’s still on that side of the door

And as this happens, as the thoughts transpire,
The earth witnesses the likeness of a fire...
The dream comes true, brings home the promise too;
Memory sparks as memories be, and with a whisper, the moonlight breaks free

The Silent Man

The silent man is playing
His notes that float, and singing along
With static lips that keep on saying
His words don’t reach… it’s a silent song

His fingers move, the keys compress
The silence weaves, he sings along
With a voice that takes a guided guess
His tale is short… and way too long

His forehead streams, his arms are straining
The silence looms, he sings along
With trust and tears each not waning
His eyes don’t lie… his smiles are strong

The silent man starts shaking
The silence springs, but he sings along
With failing faith and constant waking
His wounds don’t bleed… they merely throng

The silence worsens, it’s no more a dream
He wishes for omega, the end to his song
With a promise that death would never scream
His name as a waste, and his life as a wrong

Nightmare in Wonderland

Ever been to Wonderland?
You know, like when you’re strolling
And smiling with no reason at hand
The sun’s shining, no one’s whining,
the grassland’s rolling, time’s crawling
On and all’s as good as you’d never planned
All’s as good and slow and right, by Jesus… and presto!
You’re FALLING
Next moment, off a cliff you never knew existed
Like the ground had a split and you missed it
It’s night, Jesus Christ, there is no light
Now you ain’t crawling, no, now you’re falling
Now you ain’t beaming, gee, now you’re screaming
And falling, and screaming, till you know you’re dreaming
And then you wake up, tucked up in bed
You smile and swear and sweat all over your head
You turn and push the switch on the bedstand
You stare up and about, reach out for a hand
Of whoever you love… you know, that’s when you understand
The place you’ve been, the thing you’ve just seen
Was just another show in your little Wonderland.

Yeah, it’s a show, that’s what I’ll say
A show of shocks and laughs and magic, if you may
Of sunny nights and invisible lights
And ghosts and giants and spooky boogiemen
That’s right, yes, but every now and then
Those monsters will speak, like the clown of It
And show you a place where Shinola turns to shit
Where there is no God, there is no fright
Where sins are welcome, where sick is right
That’s when you’ll know how dark you can be
And just which demons you’ll always see
That’s when you’ll open your eyes well past sunrise
Stretch for a moment and wait for memory to lend
And then turn cold, curse and beg to pretend
Oh, you never dreamed, for you never screamed
And oh, you never beamed, so you never dreamed
That’s when the shock is not just in the end
That’s when you’ll cry, and maybe even spend
The rest of your days getting over the scare
Of dreamscapes and that solitary nightmare.

My stupid take on luck

If nights could qualify as dreams, this would certainly be a nightmare, thinks the stranger. It is, indeed, the winter’s coldest night. He spots a bench nearby, empty on account of the time and the night, and takes seat. He is fortunate there is a lamppost close by, gifting him a measure of heat.

The wind brushes against his bare arms, and he reacts with a shiver that has more than a passing resemblance to being assaulted by an army of ice picks. He pulls his woolen muffler closer around his face, rubs his palms together in hope of some relief and looks heavenward. The lines on his forehead and around his eyes—the scars of age— and the ones on his face—those of life—deepen in agony. He doesn’t pray, for he has no faith in God. Instead, he reflects.

The night is cold, the winds are high and here I am, parked with an ancient piece of rag on my body and a borrowed bit of wool to shield my face. No stars above me, no moon. All is dark, and this darkness has a depth more than any night ought to have. And yet…yet I feel as if I am blessed.

The stranger is truly perplexed by this feeling, for it seems to have no buttress. Another gust of wind takes care of that, making him shudder. His body feels sore. The night’s outrageous callosity seems to be the perfect end to a long and utterly unrewarding day. There was not a coin of currency in his pocket and not much to go in the name of food in his stomach. He slips out of his slippers, starts as a momentary chill races through his spine when his feet touch the pavement, and then curls up on the bench, upright. His face tilts slightly to the left as he closes his eyes. He falls asleep in the same position, and dies.

***

The specter is thus: A mountainside street lined by pines, a bench among the many that dot the street side, a man curled up on it, and a sodium lamp in the vicinity that casts a ghostly light on him. The street is deserted of all human bustle.

The wind screams and moans in turn. It is wholly devoid of humanity, for it gets colder in rage. The pine trees sway in eerily concerted harmony, seemingly out of respect to the might of the wind. Fallen pine needles fly about in abandon as new amigos join them every now and then. A bunch lands on the departed stranger’s pate, and the image is now unexplainably and utterly complete.

A bard and a casual onlooker shall equally have construed it so: The night is dark—the blackness would have been total but for the stars and the full moon, and of course their man-made imitations, the streetlamps. A man crowned by pine and a halo of yellow effulgence rests on a bench with an expression of otherworldly peace frozen on his face.

Not even those entirely unblessed with poetic sense could have missed the metaphor. It was the corpse of a man in peace. His eyes are closed, and there ends the vision of the ignorant.

The better informed would go a step further and tell the world a tale of darkness and destiny. The stranger wasn’t new to the city, or the street. He was a stranger in a sense that transcends tangibility. He was blind and mute. For him every day was night and only habit had led him to believe otherwise. He was a beggar with no ambitions or direction. For brevity, he was a stranger to life.

Now he was dead. And in his dying moments, he had come to terms with an inexplicable truth. He had realized that he, blind to the sight of blood beneath the coruscating stars, mute to the treacherous touch of diaphanous words, and privy only to the darkness within, was perhaps the luckiest man in the world.

Of Time and Things Meant to Be

TO AND FOR THE ONE PERSON WHO KNOWS

Life, they said, is built on fate
A notion once I used to hate
They said it’s all a spoken word
And once no weaker jest I’d heard
A pawn, that’s you, they brokered on
The skeptic yet was far from gone…
Then they talked of verse and rhyme
And yet, I trusted just in time.

Time, I thought, is all that’s true
A friend to prize and worship too
If ever, I thought, I take a fall
Time, in time, would heal it all
And if ever should I fail to see
Time, for me, would wisdom be…
Such faith without a breath of sight
No wonder once it served me right.

I killed a heart, and ran away
Turned to rock, a stolid gray
And breathed again, a callous mime
At mercy all to whims and time
Until there came a shift in season
A leap from faith to lawless reason…
Time, at once, was broken word
And questions raged, as yet unheard.

The fall was come, and I was taken
Wounded worse, and scarce awaken
Time, my friend, had failed its quest
I had no gift of sight or rest
Fires ran, I wished for grace
I spun around, and saw her face…
That moment lingered, talked to me
And said, some things are meant to be…

Me, and a Beat of Two

The night is full of screams
And whispers loud alike
The sea is the same, the endless waves
Crash their heads on graying crags
And die terrific yet in voice
The wind is as ever is, whispering
And whistling in equal measure
Directing a dance of countless trees
And seemingly the very air itself
Is full of melodies even more
Stark and full, lustrous and dark
I feel my heart yearn to hark, and
Drape in every note borne tonight
The sea, the wind, the rustling trees
The lightless birds and beasts of prey
The very earth I walk, it seems
That trembles on in silent poise…

And yet, the sounds are wasted all, for
The only tune I see, the one in fact
That seems to be
Is a beat of two, all close to me
Born not to night, but instead
The heart of a woman, lying by
In tranquil dreams of hope and joy
All in peace, in splendor too
All a life and beat of two, as
The moon slopes its way across
The spry sprinkling of constant stars
I lean closer still to her warm, warm touch…
And smile, to stars that twinkle in tow
A wondering smile of love and final ken.

The sea screams as ever
The wind is one refrain
The earth goes round
Comes back around
And I, am still the same again.

Red

For moments when I close my eyes,
When I am all that I can see,
There floats a rainbow in the skies
And red is all that looks like me.

Violet’s verve is none too plaid,
And indigo is far too far its shadow;
Blue seems true, but not quite my shade
Unless I crow and bend as low.

Green is good—the color that smiles,
Green is the world of all that’s fine;
Hence, alas, it mocks my wiles
And I wish, but fail, to call it mine.

Yellow, sir, may you rest in peace
For I seek no burst of brazen glory;
And orange may just follow please
For I wish no jest along this story.

Which brings me quick, swift and straight
Quite right in time to the arrow’s head;
Now for you an end of wait
And now for me, a tinge of red.

Call it blood, call it wine,
Call it the whispering breath of nerve
Call it all that ever was mine
Call it me, and that should serve.

Red is the yawn and dying gasp
Of the sun that kindly lets me be;
Red is the lesson a flying wasp
Could teach me well quite wordlessly.

Red is the world whenever I laugh;
Red are my eyes each once I cry;
Red's my reason, sliced in half;
Red's the rage that takes me high.

Red is the Spring of wanton joy
And the Fall that comes with age;
Red is the price that every ploy
Brings along as failure’s wage.

The scarf I wear in midst of a show
Is the red of a wizard’s preen;
As red as the heart that yearns to grow
As good as the fairest green.

Red is the blood that runs its time—
The wine that pours as lyric to rhyme;
Red is virtue, and red is vice;
Red is life, and by golly, red is nice.

A Midsummer Morning's Dawn

I woke up once in the heart of May,
A golden dawn, on a midsummer’s day,
Gazed in the mirror, a moment astray…
And it suddenly felt like yesterday.
Every memory, and every thought,
Every moment so dearly sought...
The innocent years I’d left behind,
The stolen stories I’d failed to find...

The white and the black; the gold and the gray…
Jesus and Judas-- united in the fray…
The past and the present, the stranger and me…
The cauldron of doubt I seemed to be…
The lonesome child; the goddess and the loon…
The fated walk… the journey to the moon…
The search for love; the horror of a broken heart…
The trust in reason; the rhymes of a strident start…
The bliss of darkness; the pain of light…
The countless shades of an endless night…
The broken symphony-- a reason to sing
The worth of friends, the smiles they bring…
The clouds of steel; the silver lining…
A flight with fact on a fractured wing…
The heart of life… the speckled verity…
The wayward windborne pieces of me…

To distant notes of Lucifer’s song,
The sudden belief in the rightness of wrong…
The end of a dream… a fruitless chase…
The grasp of the folly of a fall from grace…
The toll of Eden across my heart…
That Satan and Christ may never part…
That midsummer morning, the dawn held sway
And blessed in flaw, I saw yesterday.

Requiem for a Dream

Sing, O Notus, and fill your heart
With fury for this Traitor’s sins
Scream aloud your solemn soul
Let loose the rage that steams within
Hide no more, O Lightning Bearer
Unleash the spite you have in store
No mercy shall this Darkling have
No rest from hurt, no more
Spare no thought, O Noble Jove
Wound his skin with acrid rain
Let the Demon taste his deeds
Let him curse and weep in pain
O Jupiter, roll and crush beneath
The senses of this hapless Beast
May madness grip his bloodless heart
And horror have an ample feast
Thunder, rain and fire be
The vaunted words of this requiem
And tempest ring the dying bells
Of curtains on this twisted dream…

Bleed, you Brute, and walk along
This final journey home to Hell
The land of men be rid of you
Bid you your end… Farewell.

Fire

He screams a shadow of a scream, breathes a mockery of a breath, and burns. Each breath is a tortured effort of will, each scream an abortive attempt at expression. The fight is soon losing ground, for the fire is too strong, too massive. The end is near, and he knows it… he can feel his knees buckling, his muscles giving way, his will fast approaching the brink of a fatal fall…

Blood. Up ahead, behind him, to his left and to his right… all around. Suddenly the fire loses sting, and the blood takes over. Soon he is engulfed by its smell, and smitten by its visions. Orange turns red, and a latent path presents itself. It promises resurrection… and an end to the fire forever...

1

As the Ford topped another hummock, Yasir Hameed smiled. He could now see the mountains in the distance, and his heart leapt with a familiar longing. He found himself recounting his university days, and the countless trekking trips he had made to these very hills…

A sudden sharp turn took care of his reverie as he was jolted back to the present. The smile didn’t falter, however. He looked to his left and considered Nadia Ahmed, the one woman he truly loved. She was sleeping, peacefully unaware of his glance. He listened to the metronomic beats of her breathing, and his mind flitted on cue to the day he had first seen her…

He had entered the coffeehouse hoping for a quick cappuccino before some urgent business. A short time later his eyes had fallen on a woman reading the paper at a corner table. The next few minutes were now a blur, but he did remember that the urgency had quickly lost relevance. The business had taken a back seat, and he the one with a vantage. And something more… he had fallen in love.

A week after their first meeting, he had asked her out.

This was their first holiday together, and he wanted it to be special in every way. It was as good a script as he could have imagined. He was about to spend the whole of next week nestled among the mountains he so adored with the love of his life. He looked at Nadia again, and was reminded of how beautiful she was.

It was all beginning to look like a dream. The car bounced over a breaker, and Nadia shifted slightly, uttering something unintelligible. He bent over and kissed her softly on the lips.

Staring up out of the window, he was delighted to find the sky heavy with gray clouds. He loved rain.

The windshield blurred slightly as the first few drops began to fall. Soon it started pouring. Yasir Hameed closed his eyes and quietly thanked Allah for his luck. The smile seemed broader than ever, and he looked as peaceful as a waking man can.

Two shots rang out. And then there was silence, and the rain.

2

The countryside first presented an appealing sight that soon turned monotonous. She moved closer to Yasir, who was dreamily staring at the distant mountains. For Nadia Ahmed, any journey was an opportunity to make up for lost sleep, and sleep she did as the car slid along on the highway…

She dreamed of last night… Yasir kissing her feverishly… their lips locked together… his hands fervently sliding beneath her shirt and across her back… fondling, caressing softly… sliding across to her belly and moving up… further up, soft and fervid at once… all the while seeking, asking… and then she made him stop. She always made him stop. He asked questions; he did that every time… but all she did was look away. She hoped he would understand, knowing very well he couldn’t. Not unless she told him. Not unless she revealed to him the past she no longer considered her own. Not unless she exhumed the memories she had taken so long to bury…

3

The room was swathed in the ghostly light of diffused sunlight. A diaphanous curtain was drawn across the only window, and it further aggravated the sun’s feeble attempts to pierce the rain-made gloom.

A sudden creak shattered the almost funereal silence as the door pronounced a visitor. A burly man apparently in the concluding stages of his heyday entered with an obvious attempt at stealth. In a brighter milieu he might have passed unnoticed for the swinging gait and the slightly bent head that spoke of purpose. In this half-light, however, everything about him seemed ominous. There was an unmistakable glint in his eyes as he stared across the room at the girl, fast asleep on the poster bed.

The man approached the bed and stood by her side, appraising her with a rapidly darkening grin. A few minutes passed, and then he suddenly whipped off the blanket and fell upon her.

The girl snapped awake from a horrid dream into a worsening nightmare. It was some time before her returning consciousness informed her of her peril. And some more time, in which she flayed her limbs helter-skelter, before she realized the futility of her attempts. And still more time, in which she finally woke up to full awareness, before she made out the identity of the man now playing with her in forbidden ways.

It wasn’t horror she felt but a helpless resignation as she began pleading amidst burning tears to her father.

4

Yasir…

She heard herself speak, barely conscious, barely out of a dream where she seemed happy after a lifetime.

She felt a touch on her lips, and instantly knew it was Yasir. Surely, this was yet another dream… she smiled a faint smile…and then she fell asleep again.

A few minutes later, a sharp metallic bang tore through her consciousness, almost immediately followed by another.

And then there was silence, and the rain.

---

Murder.

---

5

The man didn’t matter. His death was an unavoidable certainty.

The woman, on the other hand, was indispensable, of course. An ancient log cabin on a deserted outcrop was to be her next stop, and the plan was carried out to the word.

---

And then, love.

---

6

As the first rays of morning light invaded the log cabin, the assassin woke up. He turned and stared at the woman who lay next to him, and sighed with wonder. She looked lovely in the nascent sunshine. He touched her slightly parted lips, pressing them ever so lightly. He leaned over and kissed her, gently at first, and then passionately. Lifting her head a little, he let his fingers slide through her hair to the nape of her neck, and stroked her under the ears.

Her eyes stayed closed, her lips still meagerly parted. For the man this was more than a sign of acceptance. This was approval writ large. He smiled as his other hand slipped across the front of her body, halted at her breasts, and held them each for a while, his index finger circling her nipples in turn. It then went downwards, stopping below her bellybutton. He kneaded her belly, scratching it softy. The hand made its way to the small of her back, pulling at her flesh, seeking more. For once, she let him.

Her hands hung back as he leaned over completely and pulled her closer. It wasn’t impossible to make out that she was smiling, and that was enough. He knew she loved him.

With the sunlight framing them in a dazzling nimbus of the purest white, the man entered her.

She smiled all the while, without uttering so much as a moan. A fact the assassin endured, for he knew she was dead.

The Extra Mile

It’s been so long, so far along
I doubt I ever cried
I walk a mile, all done in style
And wonder what I haven’t tried.

All deeds are done, all veils undone
And the moon is out and bright
I walk a mile, and bask awhile
In vital visions of fey delight.

I feel so wise, the dead might rise
To learn a trick or two
I walk a mile, so lost in smiles
I strike a sudden rendezvous.

The moon departs, I give a start
And the night turns all a shadow
I stop in shock, my reverie rocked
And stare at a girl I hardly know.

She tells a tale, to no avail
For I know not of her pain
I feel her cry, risk a try
And ask her to come again.

“I pity my ways”, she quickly says
And attempts to force a smile
Decent try, but then it is I—
The veteran of many a mile.

I ask her for more, my tricks afore
And all she shows is a flake
She thinks too much, that’s all as such,
She says and smiles in wake.

There’s more to go, too well I know
But I see no way to slither through
And all done and said, I find instead
That’s not what I really wish to do.

A fly hums by, a shade too nigh
And I flinch at once to verve
A fork in sight, I work the right
And steel a shaky nerve.

In muted words, barely heard
I ask her for a walk ahead
“Well, okay… let’s start away…”
And there she goes in stead.

“A second please, I’ll have to cease
For that’s not what I had in mind
The other way, that’s okay
I wonder if you could file behind.”

She looks at me, and in moments we
Are on the trail she chose
It’s really strange, all full of change
And I can’t help but follow close.

Shadows shift, I pick a rift
And the moon peeks out with glee
I smile again, then feel the pain
For the light’s now burning me.

Soon enough, it gets too rough
And all in view is set ablaze
I try to speak, but feel too weak
And slump ahead in a daze.

She walks along, none too strong
But it seems she knows her way
I stagger, falter, and follow her
The night now more a raging day.

Thunder sounds, my hopes abound
As the gods arrive to hear my cries
The promise thrills, the future kills
As venom pours from broken skies.

The pain gets worse, I reel and curse
But the girl takes scarce a heed
She walks a mile, and all awhile
She hears no stumbling deed.

“This way’s too long, too far along
I wish we had taken the other road…”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but don’t you worry…”
A word of faith as miseries load.

The stinging rain, the burning pain
It’s a vision I daren’t desire
The things I loved, are all but shoved
Into a scheme of scathing fire.

Just as I fall, stripped of gall
The endless path does conclude
I squirm and squeal, a wasted deal
My ego busted and proved a prude.

In shame I scream, a shattered dream
As the truth beholds in rage
The angry skies reveal all lies
Set upon this fiery stage.

I look up and about, no more with clout
And see an outstretched hand
“Come on, my friend, this is the end,”
Says she as I crudely stand.

Her hand in hold, my spirit sold
I cross the finishing line
And mercy be, quite wondrously
My world returns all fine.

The fury’s gone, the rain’s still on
But it’s all aglow and none ablaze
I walk a mile, and gently smile
Amidst the hurt that stays.

“What wonder’s this, what twisted bliss,
This path you chose to tread?”
She stares in silence, and whispers hence,
“That was the pain I said.”

There’s some light, not quite so bright
And more she lets amidst a smile
“Our taken road, the wrath we trode,
Has but an extra mile.”

That’s all she’d say, and looks away
Her face a frozen view
I take her hand, hold her and stand
In shifting lights of many a hue.

Memories of the Fall...

Whispers of the wind… songs afar…
The wistful scent of ancient wine…
A gust of shrouded memories… a story
Of all I wish was mine.

The rains… the wet sun… the leaves…
The vision of a smiling earth…
A whiff of times blown to dust… a dream
Of desire that failed its worth.

The flocks of pigeons… the fleeting clouds…
The silver thread amidst the wild…
A current of buried delight… a sight
Of bliss untouched and reviled.

The bounding stags… the humming bees…
The smiles against a burning sun…
A draft of yen on broken wings… a promise
Of fortunes cast and lost as one.

The fallen leaves… the dying light…
The golden dust of sweet resurgence…
A waft of passing grace… a voice
Of rapture unraveled to silence.

The flooded porch… the stars of snow…
The dismal rise of ashen night…
A breeze of smoking blood… a spark
Of flames that ate their very light.

Melodies of the dark… shattered hearts…
The morbid trail of ancient treason…
A storm of dwindling faith… a roar
Of rage upon the death of reason.

Times were...

Times were when roving irises were furtive lips,
When random sight spelt intimate voice
And reams were said
Sans a single word.

Times were when things were
As bright as bright can be
And love was all that raged within
With a mighty promise of endless bliss.

Times were when hearts spoke
With the fervour of touch... and feeling,
And yet no speech, no utterance
Escaped in time in aid of love.

Times were when a boy and a girl
Lived their stories as two aloof
And yet never missed the chance
Of stealing that one emotive glance.

And then the times fell apart
As the girl departed for ever and beyond
And all that seemed to stay along
Were echoes of a mournful song…

Times were when I believed
That every rhyme has a reason
And good times know no season,
But now it seems I was but a child.

It seemed disaster was afoot
But fate it was, cold to human emotion
So I know, and so I wonder
That such times ever were…

A WAYWARD WORD: This might have been offensive to your literary palate, but I couldn't have written any better six years back. Passably bad for an eighth grader, I suppose.

Two Minds and a Screaming Soul

Cool breeze and autumn leaves
And a moon that lights the sky
Unspun by fate, undone by time
I wait for peace to pass me by.

No soul in sight for a million miles
Just me and the screaming sea
Ripped by choice, gripped by my conscience
I sit alone, with legions, and me.

Reflecting on my past life
Attempting to glean what tore it all
Bent by burden, rent by guilt
I slump, spent in blood, and fall.

I hate, and still more I fear
Both me and my divided mind
Stirred by despair, spurred by visions
I think of my pain, and it’s me I find.

Wonder is no more the word
For no more does my mind fly
Haunted by memories, wanted by void
I wish for life, and I wish I could die…

Of Stars and Fireflies...

Crunch… Telling thuds... Boots biting heavily into gravel.

Crunch… Crunch… The sound refuses to cease. My engineer boots make their noisy way forward, and though I have nothing but contemplation to give me company, something compels me on. Not that my path is particularly picturesque or my goal is incredibly alluring, nothing like that. The path is quite commonplace, and its end is shrouded in the mysterious murkiness of the distant horizon. The time is dusk, a beginning or an end, as you like. I look up, my walk uninterrupted, and I see a sky bleeding away the last of its light. It’s getting darker every moment, the sun on the verge of another escape. But I don’t stop, not that I revel in the darkness. Not that I don’t fear it. Just that I love walking.

Crunch… This sound has a different inflection to it…

I see the boulevard has acquired quite an autumn crop of dead leaves, and I can’t help crushing them to direr oblivion. Such is their fate—no comfort, not even in death. I walk on, the dying sun my guardian angel, its diffused light my passing guide. My face is earthwards now, my hands reside in my pockets, and my eyes close. My mind wanders in abandon, wondering about all, and nothing.

My imagination threatens to bolt away like an untethered hog. It takes some effort of will to keep it within the ambits of sanity. I wish to concentrate on my life, but all I see is darkness. Is that everything? I wonder. There is no blazing sun, for night is the time as far my mind can decipher. There is no smiling moon, for it has no place in this sinister firmament. The air is rife with a smell of dereliction, a desolate aroma that underlies every jot and iota. It is that same common sight I see everyday, and I am sick and tired of it. I open my eyes, and close the vision.

And as ever I find myself standing. As ever there is that feeling of stupor in my head, and a bitterness beyond bile in my guts.

I look up again. The sky here has turned dark too. And as if to mock me in consummation, the moon has failed to rise. The moon has given me company, and comfort, on all such evening promenades before. But alas it seems even he has had too much of me. The night sky seems barren and dismal without my solitary ally…too full of blackness, too short on light… until I notice the stars.

They are everywhere, sprinkled all across the darkness in ample measure. It is perhaps, almost surely in fact, the moon’s absence that brings me to notice his diminutive cousins. Whatever the cause may be, these stars suddenly have me in their hold, whole and compliant. It is weird and wonderful indeed that these orbs of scorching gas can look so innocent and meek, dwarfed by a dwarf that has no effulgence of its own. More wonderful is what they are doing to me on this walk of fate… in them I see something I have always hoped to see… hope itself. My eyes light up, and close of their own accord, and my legs begin taking me forward again, as if on cue. The walk is on once more, and the vision is back.

I see the same moonless sky, breathe in the same dejected air, but I don’t despair any more. For this time life has taught me a lesson in desire. I have learnt to search for stars, small in their appearance, but mighty in their verity. The eyes of my soul search the sky for these teeny bits of infinite radiance…

And lo! Rejoice! The stars are found… or are they? No, it seems, for there are these tiny dots of mirth all across my vision, but they move, and they fly… not stars, surely… my mind does a double take, then bounces back—fireflies!

I reach out for one, miss, then catch another that seemed out of reach. The effect is nearly instantaneous. A power astonishing in its vitality races through me, coursing through my veins, filling me with an ethereal joy that glows… within and without. I open my eyes again, but the vision stays this time, and I see I haven’t stopped.

Something tells me I never will.

A Prayer for the Damned

Paint me, o reader of all
Paint me, I pray...
Show me my rise, and equal my fall
And give me a reason to stay.

Tell me the truth, o master
Tell me why I fly
Closer than ever to disaster
On wings of death, so high.

Take me, o lord of the flies
Take me on a ride through time
Make me my lay of traps and lies
And show me my sickening rhyme.

Drape me, o priest of pain
Drape me in the silk of reason
Tell me how to breathe again
In every moment of every season.

Touch me, o seasoned healer
Touch me with cross and holly
Mend my soul, and free her
And grant my mind her folly.

Tell me of me, my lord
Take me to me and by
Drape me in me so I can see
Touch me with me so I can cry...

Paint me, o reader of all,
Paint me, I pray...
Show me my rise, and equal my fall
And give me a reason to stay.