..I choose You. Despite You.

He told me sweet lies of sweet love
Heavy with the burden of the truth
And he spoke of his dreams
Broken by the burden
Broken by the burden of his youth
Fourteen years he said
I couldn’t look into the sun
She saw him laying at the end of my gun

Things have been unusually usual. The domestication of a rabid dog. In perfectly coordinated phases. It’s not my thing. I hate the feeling than comes over you when you look at impending hours of a day and realize that you know its culmination and ways to reshape it. I have been feeling accepted lately. It kills me in bits.

No attempts to undo the past. Not when am revisiting it, atleast. How many answers will wait along the folded skins of ever extending highways, I don’t know. I might not be searching for answers anymore. So, I know my poisons and my diseases. I mess up ever so often. But I come back and I collect the shards carefully, of all that I break. Sometimes the spirit transcends its situational inability to gather self together. Its circumstances are navigated deftly. Sometimes, it rises above and beyond the known human pain. The coldly cut skin heals its calluses. The memorabilia of a long forgotten journey is washed away by incessant spurts of the crimson liquid. It forms puddles around the place and its faith. In my head and in my eyes, your face floats like an uneasy specter. There are so many miles to cover before we reach a resolution. I don’t know what awaits me at the end of it. I do know who awaits me, though. My injuries, like my love, bloody and fresh. Neatly defined areas of pain. Self created and self inflicted pain.

Some of it, is open to revelation.
The cause of familiar trepidation, maybe the alchemy in her eyes.
And I, an unseen bystander, gather stacks of a peculiar vice.
All that could be held forth for insignificant interpretation.

Show us your face or reveal what you’re made of.
In my burnt mind, I carry a kirilian frame.
Voltages shooting through a somnolent body, leaving in ink an uncommon name.
And then a smiling masochist’s head kisses the pistol
So much for Russian roulette
Though, this had been a long and scorching wait
To discern my own fate
And that…its not with You

Much power is conferred upon such tacit daybreaks. The physical condition leaves immense scope for desperation. The first quarter of the day’s showdown, the Corpus and I often wake up to such intimate and obligatory fights. A non-existent itinerary prevails, causes more pain than the bones that went break. My omitted muse, offer me something tangible. Offer me something beyond the realms of this ill-stationed quietude. Even if a slow, chary requiem that visors Astoria’s dissonance coupled with mine. Decree that infidelity is just a state of mind. That I always carry with me all that I have ever tried to leave behind. A crazed night collapses over the Brooklyn Bridge, allayed, if at all, by a deadpan dawn. I am staring at the inert city. You mirror me. We both miss movement, displacement, and the ability to leave our current lives aside. Walking means to lose the way. Into the untamed heart of a mad town. To be gnawed a little by its feral tendencies, to revel in its nihilistic nocturne. To watch crowds throng places of modern worship, a leitmotif from a jazz bar or a wicked scat club. Amidst failing sounds and resounding lights, one opaque wall embowers the holy shrine, the Studio of sin. The clearinghouse of peccadilloes. Invocations surmount, in fact I ‘d resort to any imprudence to escape such incredible torpor. Such option-less status.

Updated :  Its over and dead.

Going Away.


~ by iconoplastic on September 17, 2007.

One Response to “If..”

  1. Classic.
    Every word of every sentence swept me away, love.

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