The Dreamer Died

In the blanket of darkness
When all I see is this crazy mess
When my feet wobble at my weight
And my spine can’t hold me straight
When the stench of this pigsty
Swamps my pillow with self-pity
I think of the dreamer I used to be
The one who thought the world wasn’t complete without me
The one who conversed with destiny and sealed his own fate
The one whose feet walked on hot coal,
But still had eyes fixed on gold
The one who shredded impossibilities
And used the shreds to weave possibilities
The one now dead

 

 

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Hearts Ripped In Throes of Passion

Charlie listened to her plans and knew he was in trouble. The pursuit had ended sooner than he expected. His was a cautious heart, still harboring bandages and stitches from a relationship he knew was destined to earthly heavens. It was now that he realized that he didn’t need a woman and all the pursuit he had waged was just under the illusion that she needed a nurse to dress the wounds that were causing him sleepless nights, but wounds of the heart need no dressing. They are to be left to heal on their own for even the hands of angels aren’t soft enough not to leave a bruise on delicate wounds. He was learning that if there was a concoction for healing a wounded heart then a woman wasn’t a part of it. The concoction would be made of three recipes; time, time and time.

“Babe, are you even listening?” Annett prodded.

“Yeah, we’ll have children, we’ll wed and we’ll travel the world on love’s back. What more have you talked about?”

“Babe, don’t be cynical about love, why did you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like this”, she twitched her lips. She was pissed off.

Here she was, trying to please a man who was too mean to pay her the least attention she needed. Why does it always have to be like this? Finally Charlie was proving to be worse in conversation than Kev she was ditching, but he had it all; all he sought in a man. He was well endowed, got looks to die for and was stable financially. Even if he was incompetent in other aspects, he would be worth the risk.

To Charlie, love was a grand illusion. It was a huge chess board, every player reading the opponent’s mind and hiding their next moves under their sleeves and aha! Their true intentions surface, too late for any defense. Good intentions floored as illicit passions take toll. And then ravens would perch on nearby trees, waiting for the opportune time to come down and feed on the vestiges of hearts spread on rugged earth, hearts ripped in throes of passion.

She was created for others too

I loved sunsets. That is past tense. Ever since you walked out of the door, sunrise and sunset have no difference to me, of what effect is sunshine on a soul so dark without the brightness of your smile? Sure, the sun shines but it was the tilts of your front teeth that reflected the light in right angles to illuminate the darkest corners of my life whenever you smiled.

The sunsets aren’t any better, I stand at the balcony, watching as face of the sun folds in orange wrinkles and all am left with is lethargic feeling, bits of pebbles form in my throat and I choke at my own indulgence in nostalgic thoughts of our past, my waist is yet to forget what it felt like to have your arms around it. Counting birds is no longer a potent therapy to me and the breeze maims my olfactory with your cologne, I don’t know the scent of nature anymore. Echoes of your giggles keep interrupting my meditations, and my mind refrain from focus and tenaciously grip to every detail of the ‘Us’ we were, my meditations turn into fantasies, the silence turns into your whispers, giggles, sobs, hiccups, slithers and muffled moans. I meditate to clearly see my goals, but I see you remove the posts.

I remember we gave each other names, names that were sweet music to our ears, names that assured us that destiny curved a path that only the two of us could tread on. Names that etched love on every corner of my thoughts. But these names now torture me, these names still haunt me. There is nothing more haunting than a name that refuses to die with its bearer, it’s a spirit always hovering, asking questions, pressing charges and worst of all eroding a mind that no space is left for seeds of nothingness to sprout. I want nothing of you. I don’t want to remember you. But how can’t I remember you when everything my eyes latch upon reminds me of you? In the night, I look at the sky, the black canvas that we once drew our love on; the constellations whose beauty we reveled at, the falling stars that serenaded our love every night now mock me. They laugh at the darkness I’ve become. They gossip of how hollow I’ve become ever since you left.

I don’t want to remember you.  The memories of you to me are what a blacksmith’s furnace is to steel, it hurts, it wounds and maims but it curves steel into treasure box sought by royals. I am wondering what your memories are curving me into. I was kind of dyslexic, for how could I fail to read the signs you showed? Most probably you never showed any sign. Ours was a smooth terrain,

Our names spelt love
And the illusion that it was created for us
Barred me from seeing the truth,
The truth; that you were created for others too.