Skip to main content

Always still dark

This still born darkness
Tearing through the night
Has ruled over us for so long
I have forgot, what it was
To feel the sun in my eye

-
It has been this way, ever
Since I lost my way, somewhere
Between Nietzsche and Camus,
When darkness came riding a Horse,
White as light and heart just as black

-
The legion in me, held its peace
Thinking here at last, peace is at hand
But wrong we were, like every time
Evil was too arrogant and we were too vile
It chose not to hide in the dark
But in the light

-
Landscapes of misery as far as
Eye can see, illuminated by the moon
Of despair , the half-dead along the path
Mark the way to the house of
Storm.

--
The Walnut doors hide the
Tempest within, screams of joy
(or are they sighs of sorrow),
ring the air, taking apart my hope
on an assembly line till
nothing is left, except a placard, which reads
‘Always, still Dark’


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Some Other Time

 We will be counting days again, till we say hello again— only for us to say goodbye again. We always knew we’d have to say our goodbyes one day. Then why does it hurt so? Even so, when we know it won’t be long before even goodbyes are a luxury. We cling to hopes— that this isn’t the only life we will live. That one day, we will meet again, in some other life, in some other time, where we won’t have to say   G oodbye.

Undelivered Package

There is an uprising coming it was supposed to be here yesterday but I suppose it is lost in the mail who do I write to the website had no address only a small warning goods once sold can not be returned maybe I should have known then not to trust Nigerian princes with unclaimed millions and fully functional revolutions leftover from the days of the next war Maybe it is stuck at customs maybe it would have been better to wait for my cousin to travel in, so he could sneak it in packed neatly between airport  toblerone and contraband iphones

In Barely Discernible Darkness

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