The fisherwoman

The stars shone above,
Echoing the world she lost;
Bringing back the time she would bow,
If she had not kept her trust.

She thought of the toil she had done today,
And her net so full of fish,
She felt content, keeping hunger at bay,
And was ready for tomorrow's dish.

The smell of the earth and sea,
And the fragrances playing with the falling dusk,
Lulled her into reminiscing sleep,
Calling upon her story of strife and lust.

She went back to the day,
When she was set free,
Splendidly wrapped, fresh and gay.
Twas the day when she would go to he.

But in the craze of celebration,
Nobody saw the ominous clouds gathering,
The prince who appeared full of contemplation,
Was the harbinger of death come aridin'.

The night, eerily silent and long,
He made her a woman full grown;
But with the mornings' first dong,
Her world had grown horribly wrong.

The madness of power ran strong in him,
While her eyes were full of love.
But in the cocoon, amidst her own whim,
She forgot she wasn't a dove.

Stepping outside, her ground shattered,
The rapine left her dazed,
And her heart grew ridged, hard and rigid,
Forever closed to his gaze.

She had lost her father,
Her mother was slain;
And the loss of life she could not gather,
For carrion had eaten all like grain.

Her head grew hot,
Arms found a strength of their own;
Vengeance for what had been wrought:
The decimation of her own home.

Plucking the dagger she had got,
She marched to her chamber,
Emanating the laugh begetting the carnage wrought,
She charged forgetting all danger.

Death stood her in all his glory,
Laughing at her plight,
Feeding of her misery,
And thus began the fight.

The sounds shook the land;
Twas the fight between death,
And last hope against being damned:
The challenge had been met.

Lights flashed across the battleground,
This battle of light and  dark;
But the darkness surged onward,
Unstoppable against her mere spark.

Hope had been lost,
The sith forces rejoiced;
For all had been host,
To this parasite voiced.

None saw the flickering speck,
Still burn like an ember.
And an angel rose to the deck,
Even he felt a shiver.

The white light blinded all.
The spark birthing the resurgence of
All good, uplifting the pall,
And putting his advance to a stop.

He who was Death fled the scene,
Never wounded before,
Repelled by a single sheen,
Of she who trusted in her own bore.

And thus twas that a single girl,
Repelled all death and destruction.
Saving her entire world,
With the sheer force of determination.

But the engagement had not left her alone,
She became recessed in herself.
For display of purity she did atone,
And now only her eyes betray herself.

Now run along, leave this old man be.
Your moms beckon,
This is the end of this story.
You might think i'm senile,
But when she wrote history,
I was witness.

And if you all are joyful today,
'Tis because of this lonely fisher woman.

Thoughts penned

A little context: I had just started feeling like I could write again for myself, and the first thing I felt like writing was what I was thinking about right then.

"Bind me not before you know what I can create, but if after having set me free, the wonders I bring forth are not worth my freedom."

"I love drawing fires, because a fire has no form. It has been as definite as a drop of water, and as scattered as embers in the wind. No matter how you draw a fire, you aren't wrong, because when you draw a fire, you are mirroring yourself back in it; and who you are cannot be wrong!"

Finally defeated

He stared away, as the world moved around him,
And he rotted inside as he could not bear,

The needles boring into his soul,

The pricks of a mind desolate.

 

He tried and tried, to get away,

But the ghosts haunted him all day,

And when the voices finally stopped,

His walls broken, himself uncorked.

 

He was bare to the world,

Open to pain, and all hurt,

And the reapers came and slashed across,

The darkening core this man had got.

 

And the fatal miscarriage inside him,

His sheared black soul, wearing thin,

Was pulled apart and torn away,

To leave a hollow shell astray.

 

His hopes and dreams all crushed and strewn,

On the field along with wounded soul hewn,

His withering figure shrunk to his bones,

Eyes losing their spark, enervated.

 

Nowhere to go, he knew what this was, 

His final failure, his disgrace sparked,

And in his final wheezing breaths,

A horrid smile lit up his face.

 

For he, who had been king of kings,

Come where his enemies vanquished had been,

The last defeat on that battlefield,

Was the defeat of his conquering soul.

Musings on a bus

Warning: I wrote this while on a bus on a trip with friends to Coorg, amongst a busy cacophony, so it might not upto the mark, but eh, here goes.

Sitting in a bus riding along, my thoughts travel alongside. Racing ahead, they seem to always come back to where I am. Even after piercing through the veil of time, they move forward back to where I am.

My friends and I revel in the simple joy of companionship. No one speaks, because there is no need to. The songs in the background permeate us, taking deeper into ourselves, barely touching the moment. And in the end, it comes down to this.

The moment.

Where else will you find joy? Happiness is an abstract concept that I have not identified with, but joy we have all experienced. Be it after a long, tiring day when you get some good tidings, or when you meet someone after a long time. Winning a competition, or achieving something, all those experiences give you joy. And that is something found only in the moment. I seem at a loss to describe it, but suffice to say that I am, at the moment, joyous.

Speaking about things in the moment, there another feeling that fits the description. It is something so rare today, that you find it only in the fleeting breaks in between our mangles lives. It is peace. The contentment of just being. Another feeling I see around me right now. The world has been reduced to the confines of our bus, and the scenery rapidly falling behind. And it all seems peaceful, like it was meant to be. Ah, which reminds me, let me get out of this reverie, and into my moment ;).

The madness of men

"You are mad",
It has been said,
When times are bad,
and great plans are being laid.

Scoffed by all,
Even the common folk,
The madman is,
When he uses his yolk.

For in their own small homes,
Unthinking beyond,
They do now see the mind flown,
The genius spawned.

For the madman is unlimited, unbound,
By the bonds of the lot,
And once those concerns deleted,
The madman hatches his prodigious plot.

Such outrageousness, shocks many,
But in the end,
After the death of cacophony,
The madman has made the world bend.

Such are the geniuses,
Who are labelled mad,
Changing the pretenses,
The dull proletariat had.

Unimaginable feats are always done,
By men who are mocked all around,
Because a true man all alone,
Is by the feckless always frowned upon.

But in their hands is the true power,
The power of change,
An evolution they must deliver,
With as little as they can maim.

This madness is in all my friends,
The faculty, this freedom within,
Why try to be one who simply blends,
When you can a revolution bring!

Just me.

It's hard to be young nowadays.
We have no revolution, no war.
No plagues, and no dictatorship.
There's nothing new, because everything ends up being a copy of the copy of an idea that someone else has already had, a long time ago.
Religion doesn't hold us anymore.
Neither does morality.

We simply face life, and carving it, deal with it and with the people around us.
And for me that has become an impossible task.
I'd rather have problems like those at the beginning, where it's easier to deal with, because we know what we are supposed to do.
But when we face life, we don't know what to expect or how to react to the situations that arise in it.
I wish I could think like most of the people, but unfortunately, I don't have that gift.
I wish I could ignore my doubts regarding this existence and satisfy myself with the football results, or what's going on TV, on any other futility or convention  which might waste my time.
But I am restless about my intellect, about my emotions, actions, disappointments and deceptions.
Perhaps I have an issue.
Perhaps i'm just different.
I don't understand why people seek happiness so much.
Consuming it incessantly, without caring about what exists beyond it.
I believe that life is not only happiness, and that sorrow has a similarly important role in how we see things and deal with them.
That may be because I owe much more to sorrow than to happiness.
I suppose that a person who has had more happiness than sorrow will think differently.

But this is just me being me.

Mistress of my soul

Our reunion needs no words, dear,
For there is nothing to say,
You complete me in such a way,
As might a lover to a girl.


Mistress of my soul,
How do I speak with you?
For my words meander on your infinity,
And your answer does come from the fall.
It leaves me so enamoured and full,
That I do not even need a beckoning call.


How do you know, how to quench this thirst,
And calm my weary quarrelling soul,
The secret which even I do not know,
Even though I hold it in it's earthly hole.
Where do you hide this soothing balm,
This panacea, better than all,
The ultimate serum which through mere sight,
Does push away my untimely pall.
Leaving but my essence to dance with you,
My mortal being silenced for a few.


O mother of many, how do you care,
For all like they were your own,
Feeding them, cleansing them, cradling them beside you,
Giving them a home.


Why do you let them ravage you so?
Without getting your heartbeat up,
And why do you wreak such havoc and death,
Upon such a slight brawl?


Many things you are my dear darling,
But noones to command and call,
For many lovers might die at you feet,
But you are their final sprawl.