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A LETTER TO THE DUST

Dear Dust,
A story I would share, the story in my mind; for the agony I cannot bear, is that I always find. 
Read it out, read it well; I'm a voiceless song, a fireless hell:-

T'was raining.
Pregnant grey clouds buried hatred in their bosom and clapped with delight.
For me was twice younger when my hands touched the cold master in fright.
My fingers were frail, my lips were supple; my brown hair curled its tail as the shadow greased
my bubble. Now all I do is mewl, for I have lost my words; the thorns in my heart etched my 
bones.

It is not raining anymore.
But, I still see those pregnant grey storm clouds hanging in my heart; unmoving stones keeping my soul bowed.
Now I am just an erstwhile glitteri, patched up with beauty, grinning sadly.
A drop of water kisses my breast, I look up.
This time it is not the rain, it is my tears. It pours down to the dust".
Please Dust, accept my tears with kindness. Thanks.

Yours sincerely,
A Broken Voice



NINJA

Books//Textbooks//Notebooks//Scrapbooks...
Confusion...
I'm at judo class..... the bell rings.
Pages littered everywhere, at me they stare. I stare back as I swing my sword back and forth, ready 
for battle.
I cut them...
Yes, I cut them in bits with my sword like pumpkin leaves with a butcher's knife in preparation for
melon soup.
I lick my lips as the aroma of blood stings my nostrils.
My eyeballs fall into the pot, I stir it arrogantly, onion water make my eyes water, I hiss.
......a ninja in the kitchen.
With a back flip and a spin, I thrust my sword into the abdomen of my textbook as I watch its 
content crawl down into the pot like maple syrup on an almond cake.

Death's delicacy.

I am scribbling notes like a toddler, tear my head open with the edge of my sword, and pour in the delicacy down to my spine as it envelopes my cerebrum//it's what I wished for though.
I stare blankly at my scribbled notes like a tasteless meal. I had killed all the ingredients I knew, and turned the dead into a delicacy.

I spat//I spat out my eyeballs and realized I was fighting backwards.
The bell rang, judo class was over.

I'd still be a Ninja.

- THOUGHTS

SHE:- You walked home alone. Without strength, you fought. I landed in darkness, stone 
explanation for such?

HER:- My pupils dilated 5mm; I fainted. Hell's my babysitter, t'is bitter. Lights were 
around me, I couldn't see. I thought I was blind, then I figured twas my mind 
playing tricks on me. You drove me to a ditch, and when I thought I could stitch  
myself, you said, "no". I took three pills thrice, that's how far I could go. You 
committed a sin.

SHE:- Blame yourself, for your sin be upon you. I told you, "you fought without strength"
yet you couldn't fight me. When the shadow falls in a ditch, it does not suffer. It's
the corpse that is pictured in newspapers. I repeat, "Blame yourself". For you have
limps, I have but a voice. I tell you, you do. We are but the puppet and its
puppeteer.

HER:- Wicked are you! You shall suffer..... no, I shall suffer. I shall forever regret thrice
than you, for you shall surely escape.

SHE:- You shall indeed suffer. Regret shall no more be your guest, but your roommate.
For where you are, there he shall be also. I do not cry for me, I cry for you.

HER:- I too. Let no man be like unto me, for there is no turning back.

THE SKETCH

Tears in paint boxes queued up at his feet; he's faint as he held his ego
like a pen with his teeth (his arms are weak), drawing lines on blank
space in bleak tunnels. He begins with his face.

It was 12pm.

He took two buttons from his shirt and carved out his eyes because they
were hollow, wallowing in mire, darkened with guilt; underneath, his nose is built like a bridge. 
Each line falls from his pen, he draws his arms without elbows.
He is scared to stand so he crawls.
He doesn't shade because he is afraid of the dark; he lost his voice, so he's dumb.

He sneezed out curved lines to form his abdomen - he called himself, "the wreck". His only 
consolation were the straight lines of his legs, pointing to the dust and, his brave feet that kissed 
the earth - the only place he'll find solace; the grave.

He stared at his sketch like a starved wretch, he forgot to draw his lips because he had always 
forgotten what a smile looked like. He spat out a horizontal line blandly... that's enough.
He sprang up to his feet to fold his neat truth, his pen splashed its ink on the eyes of his sketch, 
staining it red.
He glared at it...... now it's complete.

It's 12am now.

He stood at the border of the river, dropping the sketch into the clear water with a shudder, as he watched the waves engulf his masterpiece - himself, it swam to the bottom of the river. He smiled 
and patted his chest; as the bubbles blew him a kiss, he 
whispered to himself with a still soft voice, "Rest in peace".

SCANDAL

Elegant beauty; princess becomes enslaved.
Her books – her wishes; the results – an irony.
She’s 16, with the curves of an 18 year old; her mind’s 25 already. Her breasts are formed from the hypnotizing caresses from the ’50s.
A gentle knock, a charming smile, batting lashes – and her books turn to the bed; and instead of
silence, moaning – two hearts beating, or more.
The agony of a student; the shame of a father. She takes pills so an unfortunate human isn’t
brought into such an unfortunate world.

If human hands could make one’s skin glow, then she’s an angel; the only bright light in hell. Her tormentors – her conscience. She tells herself, “there’s no turning back now”, because she wants to tread the path many girls walk – the broad way, and show her dad her grades with a smiling face; a certificate from her incessant “hard work”.

Only she knows the secret, and the men who hold the key to her success.
She fights daily to balance and tidy herself in this outrageous scandal.

LITTLE GUY

In filthiness you were my companion,
upon snowy hills and rainy clouds till
winter be gone. Spring kisses the snowflakes
goodbye – t’is a good sign though. I walk through
mire but my feet does not taste nature’s meal; 
as my eyes see what my toes cannot till 
I find fresh pools where I drink with camels
and donkeys, for my journey is thus far.
Pitiful to think that this little guy 
bears the pain of my feet: kisses I wish 
to present to him, but a soul he lacks 
and would not count my good deeds for pennies.
My shoulders slack but not as much as this
little guy as his head hits the dust with
the rage I carry. A little honour 
should be bestowed on he who bears the yoke; 
for if he costed nothing, his deeds may
have been more priceless if measured rightly.

My little guy bear thou a little longer,
I cherish thee more than a soul would hunger.

MISCALCULATED ACTIONS

He is but a boy in adult clothing masked with a baby’s tears.
His grief are his memories, the actions that shattered him like a puzzle. If
his life were an algebra, he couldn’t find “x”. 
Shackles in grey-stained paints dangle loosely on the creature in vertical position, his body inclined 75° to the horizontal, his mind filled with rage as the root of his burden is the square of his problems.
In addition to his pain, his groin is dry as it loses its taste of liquor that he so yearned for, from hotels’ heavenly gates, in his dim lit cage. Now all he does is fantasize about love, peace, happiness.
And freedom.
He solved his life like a simultaneous equation – eliminating his good friends and substituting his lungs for pleasure – and ended up arriving at the wrong answer. Subtracting his thoughts from his mind, he is weak and like a wimp he staggers helplessly, clutching the loose flesh swaying on his bones.
He blames his character, I blame his mind. It said, he did; its words, his deeds.
He stares distastefully at his answer and realizes he used a wrong formula. If only he solved it better, his life wouldn’t be incorrect.
Now he waits for the internal and external examiners to decide his fate.

BEFORE SUNRISE….

He has unseen visions coated in black and white, frozen in time. He has
colours in his eyes because the rainbow stains his iris after his tears fall as rain.
It is the storm in his heart that causes shipwrecks but his soul remains afloat.
His body drowns in sin;
He struggles at first, but then he lets its deceitful savoury overwhelm him, and he says to himself, “Happy am I”.
He prepares for battle, but the war is within his mind. 
He is, but a street dog, fighting for dirt because he canst not see, it is yet still dark.

Pride is a ghost rider.

It took him, yea took him thither.
Now he canst not go on his knees and tell the Unseen Master, “Have mercy”.

Guilt is not a slave, but a master. He rides on the poor man’s conscience like a horse to battle and makes him fight with himself. He takes him to the middle of the Red Sea.

He drowns.
But, it is not the end.
When the sun rises upon him he shall, without doubt, be cleansed. But, 
cleansing…is a choice. Freedom…is a decision. To be saved…is a volition.

He chooses life, he lives.
He chooses death, he dies.
Foolishness is not a sin, but a curse.
And it is…but a choice.

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