I hide.
You may think
That it’s what I like,
To hide,
In the shadows,
The milling crowds,
Or the quiet
Of the countryside.
Truth be told,
I no longer know,
If I’d like to show
Myself,
All of me,
For the world to see.
And so I hide,
Behind the hair
Falling over
My countenance,
And the black
Of my oversize jacket
So also the shades.
I hide.
It is quite simply,
The only way,
I know to live.
In waking,
In sleeping,
In walking,
In eating,
In living,
You see,
Endless possibilities,
To cease
To exist.
It is
Almost superhuman,
The effort you summon,
To resist
The pull,
Of this Pantheon.
Beyond the ether
Lies oblivion.
What if salvation,
Exists right here,
With the hurt
And the devastation?
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Something happened,
Between the edges,
Of knowing, and not,
Of understanding,
And its lack.
Something happened,
Although it was profound.
It escaped notice,
For far too long,
Juxtaposed as it was,
Between the edges,
In the nothingness
That exists,
Or perhaps not,
In the depths
Of a human mind,
Giving way to rot.
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There is nothing
In the whole wide world
That will seemingly soothe
This festering wound.
It is filled with maggots
The very sight of them
Repulsive, disgusting.
This festering wound.
It oozes,
As if it’ll never stop,
Until life,
Frustrated from holding on
Against its will,
Gives up its hold
On the embattled shell
That holds it all –
The sunken eyes,
The festering wound,
And the ragged breath –
That fragile thread,
That would rather snap,
Than carry on,
The ebb and flow,
Of a life on the go.
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The water receded,
Even before
The clouds disappeared,
Almost entirely,
From the canvas
Of the fiery sky.
The first to go dry,
Were the little falls,
And dancing streams,
Then finally, the meandering,
Lazy rivers.
But when the deep wells,
Gave up as well,
It was as if,
Earth had lost,
A valiantly fought battle,
And given in,
To the arrogant whim,
Of her scorching tormentor.
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And then there was pink.
Lots of it,
In many different
Shapes and sizes.
Some pink came
In fancy cupcakes,
Served at celebrations
In clubs, organizations
And institutions.
Some pink was in
Fancy lettering,
Smattered
With sparkling glitter,
On wishes,
That appeared on walls,
Real and virtual.
Some of it
Was in the attire,
Of beautiful women,
Smiling from pictures,
Celebrating,
Themselves,
And others like them.
While some of it,
Was in the shirts,
And flowing skirts,
Of water wives,
Making the trek,
For the water,
That’s tethered
To their worth.
And some of the pink,
Was in the garment
They ripped off,
To commence the torment
Of the powerless woman,
At the mercy
Of predators,
More vicious than,
A pride of hungry lion.
None of the pink,
Was in the comments,
Inked in black,
From naysayers,
And the not-feminists,
Who wondered
What the fuss
Was all about;
Why couldn’t women
Go back to when,
They served
But spoke not?
But when it was time
For the pink to shine,
They all said,
In unison,
“Happy Women’s day”,
Ad infinitum.
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Comprehension
Brings awareness,
And sometimes
Profound sadness;
You feel like
The earth beneath
Your shaky feet,
Has given way
To an abyss;
And yet,
You don’t quite fall in,
You hold on,
Grasping on
To anything,
To be able to resist,
The free fall
Into oblivion.
Yes, comprehension
Brings awareness,
And is perchance
Your first step to doom.
The doorway
Holds a secret,
And so too,
The windows
And walls,
But most of all,
The floor
Holds the burden,
Of the darkness
That unfolded,
Within this space –
Seemingly safe,
And a haven.
And the secret,
Is as much
About the oath
Of silence,
Birthed in despair,
As it is
About the devastation,
That unfolded there.
The wind is strong.
You can feel it,
In the way the dust
Stings your eyes,
Even when you keep them
Tightly closed.
And in how your hair
Clings to your face,
In a tight embrace.
You feel its chill,
And you hold yourself
Really tight,
Losing, in the process
The battle
With your hair.
The wind is strong.
It brings in its wake
Stories from the past,
The ones you had
All but forgotten,
Except,
For the inexplicably
Sudden chill,
On a summer night,
When the ghosts
Were aroused,
Gathering the remnants
And causing a storm,
Carried on
By the gusts of wind.
The wind is strong.
You are not that person.
The one
Who makes heads turn,
The one
Who is heard
Above the noise,
The one
Who others look to,
For comfort
And advice.
You are not that person.
You just happened
To be,
And you decided
Somewhere along
Your journey
That it was fine
To simply be –
Until,
They took away
Even that.
You are not that person.
The one
Who simply wanted to be,
A quiet presence,
Among the hundreds.
You are marked,
Tainted –
And that’s all
You can ever be.
Chasing Sunshine 