Where are leaders?
As in Chess, the pawn falls first,
in all games of sides;
and keep falling, paying with our lives,
for shadow-gods and play-heroes,
hiding behind,
an immaculate curtain,
of engineered words;
or capitalized antics.
Had their promises held,
any honest substance,
the pawns wouldn't fall as much,
and if they did, it would amount,
to what it actually is:
destruction of life, it's betrayal.
Where are our leaders?
Not the ones puffed,
with media gravitas, sitting snugly,
on a coveted chair,
but the ones that really cared,
enough to draw visions,
instead of mere images for display?
And if history is taught unaltered,
to a posterity we have already failed,
they would learn of five countries,
inherently great, but plundered,
by vicious "leaders", at the same time;
and a global body of lies,
stooging for one of these vicious men.
-
What a wondrous paradox that the heart can keep waiting, within chests or the sky, but not the heartbeat.
-
Sights blur past,
as trails and glow-worms,
of melancholic colors;
mountains smear into hazy enigmas,
melting into the other black,
and dews stretch into tears,
upon the cold glass,
of the bus rocketing in departure,
farther away, and away,
each moment of the cold night.
Thoughts get splashed,
with a pricking pain,
of some vital loss,
like stains of love on a sheet,
in the ruins of a home,
torn by war, or simply time.
And all there's left to do,
is to hold on,
to oneself, for someone else.-
Social Experiment:
An arrogant man once called,
all of love a sham,
something utterly unneeded,
and proclaimed he would never love,
neither had he ever,
not even the blood that birthed him,
only to get locked up alone,
by the great prophets of feelings,
in a room with just a vase,
of tiny plastic flowers in purple,
on a shrub of fake green leaves.
The last laugh wasn't his,
when they caught him,
a week into the isolation,
watering the make-believe plant,
everyday as he woke,
blank eyed and lost.-
If I promised to wait, will you
promise to be the one that ends it?-
A Pessimist on Optimism:
Why can't the end,
be called the start of a new cycle?
And separation, an interval?
Why can't dirty linen,
be called soiled instead?
Why can't disease,
be called super-physiology,
and failures, just lessons?
Why can't lethargy,
be called a cocoon,
and an underperformer,
a chrysalis?
Why can't secrets be called truths,
and friendships, just love?
Why can't hatred,
be called misunderstanding,
and misery, just a phase?
Why can't death,
be called legacy instead,
and the final kiss the eternal one?-
I’m tired of waiting for silence to stop bullying
my words back into the blue well of myself.-
Fair Warning.
I could take the leap of faith now,
but years down a sad lane,
don't come running to me,
crying,
"What an irreplaceable thing,
we threw away into dirt!"-
I’ll keep waiting for you; first in my body, then my books, then the deathless silence of the universe.
-
I wish bridges had veins instead
of cables; so people know they
really should be travelling in retreat
to the right people, not places;
and I’ll wait where the bridge brings you.
POEM IN CAPTION.-