Mendacious Circumlocution : Part II

Yesterday, not the literal one,  I have finally discovered the feeling of a touch when I ran my rough and rugged hand along the skeletal heavens covered the most tender of skin, also dubbed as “Her fingers”.

Suddenly we were not there, where we did not want to be, or I was not there, I was on the calmer, greener and prettier side of the fence, where only she knows my past and who I really am, where only she recognizes my presence and the sorrow that I embody, where only she gets to comfortably rest her head on my burdened shoulders, where I get to ignore all matters of life and the living and tend to her melancholic and unmasked eyes, and where I can control my lucid dreaming to embrace her lips until I become the songs, until I’m an imperfect piece in perfect peace and until time, pain and the scars are no longer.

I am not allowed to dream anymore, even at the climax of my hypothetical euphoria, my palm slithers away from hers to return from the kingdom of fantasies to be alone once more in the quarrelsome lands of the veiled undead.

I return with my mask on, preventing my words from seeping from my head to my mouth and averting my eyes from her pathway to the stars.

 

PS: I am sorry that the misery I am perceives the beauty you are. The mask remains.

الغريب: الرقصة

حبيبَتي
على بعد امتدادِ أصابعي
ترقصُ على ضرباتِ قَلَمي
وتدعوني للمشاركة
للرقصةِ المباركة
واحتواءِ الجسد
وإصلاحِ ما فسد
من بكاء ماضٍ منسي
وألم ظهرٍمحني
أنهض
فتبتسم تبسمَ الشمسِ لوجهِ من فارقَهُ النوم
أعتدل
فترسم ملامح مستقبلِ من شابَهُ اللوم
وتلتصق الأجسادُ والاعناقُ
وتلتقي العين بالعين
فأراها
وأرى حزنها
وأعترف بعشقي لها
فتتركني
وترقص وحدها
ويعود حبيبُها
يكتبُ عن حبٍ لها

Scarlet Dance Painting by Tanya Anurag

Empty Vessel

I do not know what to write anymore,

words are seeping

from my heart

to my pen,

to the floor

as I recall the man I once was before,

when I wrote of peace and children of war,

I wrote of sins and priests,

I wrote of men and beasts,

I wrote of silence among the crowds,

I wrote of stars among the clouds,

I wrote of death and the healing,

I wrote of the faithless and the believing,

I wrote in vain,

I wrote in pain,

and in the mosques I prayed

and from the wine I swayed

and in the coldness stayed

and in the darkness laid,

for I had wished for things,

for I had cared for bonds,

for I had longed for her,

but now,

no more.

Words are seeping

from my heart

to my pen

to the floor.

The hissing of the demons

With the sad excuse for a bus heading slowly but surely to my destination, to my brilliantly decorated mental confinement, and with all that is wrong with the public’s musical taste screeching in my ears beyond what sane humans consider as loud, I decide to reflect on my wants, my needs and a year I barely survived, a year that masterfully destroyed my soul only to rebuild it from the wreckage it had become, by chance, by choice or by divine design.

During this rather prolonged time of reflection, I could merely identity three intense and course-changing times; First was my, thankfully, short work experience, wherein I only existed as a number among many in the lowest of the low of the corporate food chain, the time when a death wish did not seem that unreasonable.

The second was my long awaited personal achievement, the one that justified my presence in this wretched existence, that moment in time that finally conquered my apathetic and rather lethargic mask and sent it back to oblivion, all in due time.

The third was ‘Her’, the mythical stranger who never failed to inspire my pen, my papers and my words to create worlds beyond human recognition, realms beyond mortal definition and meadows in the barren spirit of mine.

I still wander, aimless, held together by my want that never wanted, my need that’s partially fulfilled, the dim, darkened past, the ambiguous, unseen future, the one that was, the one that is and the one far from reach, far from home and far away from all that forms the pretentious, conflicted I.

Yours immortal,

Zeus

Hand with Reflecting Sphere by M. C. Escher

In his head, he wishes he was dead

Between two evils

one wearing good as a mask

and one declaring darkness,

he lies, insane

he tries, in vain

for he had flames for eyes

and demons in his head,

he wishes he was dead,

rotting in the ground beneath

like a sword

that never left its sheath,

eternal,

immobile,

dead.

He was never ahead,

his mask lived instead

in the lands of the wicked

and the living undead,

he was a saint that sinned,

he was a beast that grinned,

he left no stone unturned,

now he is spewing

about love, lust and the suffering,

about demons, angels and the healing,

with feeble spirit,

aching and timid,

and all is lost,

all is dead,

save the humans instead

and all hail the red he bled,

he bled for brethren unborn,

he bled for future torn,

he bled with disdain and scorn,

for he was comfortable not caring,

he was at ease not giving,

he wishes he was dead,

at his maker instead,

telling stories

of saints and sinners,

of lovers and lechers,

of the birth and the undoing,

of what once was

and no longer is,

he wishes he was dead.

Such a shame,

no one is to blame

for such mortal wish,

of the big fish

in the little pond,

ruling as a God,

among minions,

that never worshiped,

let alone faked praying.

He wishes he was dead,

in the comfort of his bed,

with no one to mourn,

and no one to remember,

for the reason behind his wish

is to be forgiven,

or to forget

that he’s already

dead.

Yours insanely,

Zeus

Christian Bale American Psycho by Lord Iluvatar