With a blank face of a man who knows that all effort is futile,
A dying of hope in his eyes telling of a soul on trial with the Gods –
Like a child he glares at eternity while tied to men and women,
Who stand together against storms that rage with condolences.
His mask of sanity skimming through histories and days,
Explored the possible and impossible,
The apprehensive chances he lost among unkempt and fleeting acquaintances.
And when faced with the spectre of death and loss of love,
His heart froze and no pang of sorrow mounted his throat
As all was foreseen and ordained unto his fate.
A vague sense of homecoming washes over his skull,
After avoiding stigmas of living a distant and fragmentary life,
After becoming native only to those unfazed by rituals.
Yet, when glowering in contemplation,
Weaving and looping memories
Never does he unravel those thrifty times that held his joys.
Eerie objects rot in disassembled drawers of his curiosity,
Unsettlingly beautiful, his sole catalogue of untainted innocence –
A museum of re-polished habits unhindered by precaution.
Shuffled precariously among these joyous moments are plagues of regret,
Self-immolating guilt in brilliant precision of terror -
Its hell cranked up, with his demons snugly tossed about
On mismatched cushions and stacks of censored books.
***
An infatuation with wisdom,
Misguided theories and
Sacred slogans of fossilized revolutions
Forge a grave moral question in his soul,
One that compels him still to yearn for recourse
Beyond gutted arena of comedies of infantile iconoclasts.
He believes revolutionaries are not to be worshipped
Or painted colossal with gloss-stained brushes,
Bristles made of electric wire oozing blood and a haze of webs.
