I
The box of sweets sat with mischievous intent
It neither stared nor grinned nor tried to gobble me
It plainly sat—mischievously
Harborer of evil intents and
A sleazy wickedness manifested
Besides your familiar voice, I hear voices, many voices
Concerning voices—all the same, indistinguishable and familiar
The echo of the superiors
Gravitating around me
Evolving into a hollow circle with
A shell of a contemptuous valley
To which I cling on in desperate hopes of self-preservation
Perhaps respite—no, salvation?
No salvation, no respite?
Just a glare granted graciously by me
The box of sweets was—is a formidable foe
The canvas for my palette
The ear when I need one
And a mouth when I don't
It demanded—no, demands...
No wickedness, no ill intentions
No demands other than the ones I command
This vigour of life, the sweet joy that makes all
This box of sweets
My most formidable enemy and yet, my only friend
Why do you eat me, my maker?
The bare rocky valley you have me trapped in
It is unsustainable and...
II
The monkeys dance around the ritual circles, frivolous as me
But lacking my boxes of sweets
Their ancestral dances brim with great beauty
And the circles, the cornerstones
Of the lush valley of my culture
Sprout many boxes of many sweets
That's not how you make boxes of sweets—Oh, why would you?
Your unforgiving success demands sweets without boxes
The ancient traditions you selfishly ignore
On the hills of the fossils, you now create circles in circles
With drooping eyes, the crumpled valley walls will
Never sing of the beautiful plateaus—the
masters of dreams and the canvas of dreamers—a
Rock to you inconsequential. You carry sweets, not a box of sweets
Dipped along with us in this lifeless valley
Forever plunged into the eerie Hadal
The once flourishing sacred pigs and snakes, now buried, are
Blighted effigies that your eyes betray you from
Your sacreligious heart was never taught to sing about them
Our song is written by the composer of many other fake songs
Weaver of lies, beseecher of truth
The one who tells you to sing his lies to
III
Yet you sit there, a box of sweets,
Smarter than the dancing monkeys,
Capable of whispering and speaking
Plotting against your master
And succeeding!
I always knew that you harboured evil intentions
And a sleazy wickedness manifested
I always should have known
When I first thought that you glared
Your sweet evilness—now naked and bare
Sing to me my songs darker than my songs
I heed to myself
YOU ARE READING
Rhythms From a Quarter Life
PoetryI will die the very moment this poetry collection is complete, not a moment more, not a moment less. Yet, what worries me is not death but never being able to complete this poetry collection. These are the rhythms resonating from a quarter-life.
