Tasenda

I will trace the Jhelum Across Your back with my fingers In barely discernible darkness It will form a paisley Drawn from the memory of An imagined Kashmir No language spoken by Man or Gods shall be Uttered that night Words will be melded, Sentences molded to form A new language of love The ink, a fine powdered Amethyst, shall dry as We write its grammar The quill tips, fashioned From old bones, shall Burn in its blaze The room will be Full of scorch marks In barely discernible darkness -- Tz

I draw a deep breath, An empty chair sits in the corner Hastily scribbled notes scattered Around the desk, abandoned Like lilacs in battle filed Wandering eyes rest among the Clumped clothes, a black sequined Scarf pokes pathetically from Among the ruins of our lives, Staring at me, accusing me A half-eaten apple still Sits on the top the fridge, next To the owl totems from the time We visited the dead shaman, You used believe in -- The movers are here, Walking up the narrow stairs Stomping feet leaving shoe marks, You so hate, across the Floor, Our floor The empty boxes laid in front of me Forcing decisions I never wanted To make, what to keep and what To ditch, how much luggage to leave For the insidious new occupants -- Tz

Love is such a heartless business The arsonist told me Just after she had abandoned everything And mutilated my life Everything needs to be set on fire Ignited and destroyed So there is no trace left That anything else ever existed All those stories you hear, Of frozen rubies and crushed Mild dew are all lies, Fed to us by the industrial heart complex Everything needs to burn, Her camphor green voice insists But it needs to be cleansed first With incense and hate Love is a heartless business, The arsonist goes on, repeating That it is puerile and pure servitude, Nothing to gain or to lose To save you, I must set Your heart on fire So, you are left with nothing Nothing, but my burn marks On your heart -- Tz

Rumors of snow escape With gossip from the prison Cell of a long deceased poet, ‘He had no heart’, The cold wind whispers in The ears of his former lovers ‘He never loved you’ Unseen hands trace on Frosted mirrors across seas Pictures of his vandalized Grave leak, the only word That could be read, ‘Liar” Tz

There are times when  I wish I knew magic I would weave a spell, I would conjure a trick I would heal your heart, But There is no magic in the world There are no phoenix tears No enchanted pomegranates No exorcisms for the ghosts of pain No magical mortar to cement broken hearts -- There are times when I wish miracles still happened I wish prophets still walked the earth I would visit every messiah I could find I would follow every prophet to heal your heart But, The Dead no longer rise on a touch The seas no longer part for striking rods The Lepers refuse to dance with joy The moon and the stars are no longer cleaved -- There are times when I wish time travel was possible I would freeze time and trace back steps I would stop you from walking to that moment I would break the space-time continuum But, Rivers refuse to go upstream Mountains refuse to bow Sands refuse to meld in the sun But, I cannot