Dandelions in the sky...

Empty inside, light-headed feeling,
Cotton ball mouth and sand in my eyes;
This is how it feels the day after
Faith is lost in most things alive.
A pang in the chest where
A heart’s supposed to beat slow,
But there is no rhythm this time;
Now, somehow it feels like
Killing some large part of mine.
Chills in my spine, ache in my throat,
A burning behind my eyes;
I can’t break a promise again,
The one where I promised never to cry.
Never, seems to be too long a word,
Broken too soon to deny;
Emptiness and loneliness, two strong words;
Too powerful to defy.
What shall one use to fill,
Such a gaping hole with?
Pennies, and wishes aside;
Faith leaves too large a hole,
To fill with more meaningless lies.
Dreams are left dangling,
And hopes are left streaked,
With tears from invisible vines;
Choking and holding no more,
They wither and die.
Clockwork in movement,
Nothing has changed,
Except for no life in your smile;
No one seems to care anyway,
Lost in a giant fog outside.
No sound comes at that moment,
No howling of winds,
Nor lightening cutting the night;
You wake up one morning, and it’s gone,
Dandelions in the sky.

Sreedevi

Celebration of the Dead

In the land of the dead
There is a celebration
Where skeletons dance in streets
In gowns of silk and satin

With no shoes to cover up
The stark white shattered toes
Gentlemen have tread upon
Remorseless and morose

The dresses were once white
And adorned with pretty lace
Now they are stained crimson
Matching a bruised bloody face

In the land of they dead
They dance in celebration
Lifting up what’s left of broken
Hearts and decayed emotions

There’s a peace in their chests
Where hearts haven’t beaten
In so very long a while
Longer than time they haven’t eaten

Dried flowers in hairless skulls
Are the only bright thoughts
These women have in their head
It’s all they have ever got.

In the land of the dead
There’s always celebration
More and more come in for peace
Children, and women, in exultation.


Suspended in time, they no longer care
For the dead have no clocks to weep
Late, late, it is too late;
Now there is no wait for sleep.


Sreedevi

Into the Night

In the gathering gloom, the mind learns of clarity
For when there is no light, the darkness survives
And only the darkest of thoughts shall thrive
For the world is nought but shades of grey
And with the rising dawn the sun chases down
All that lies hidden in the shadow of the sun
It is there that we shall find, peace from momentum
Of restless wanderings of the un-chastened mind
It is then that there will be peace in benediction
Of an everlasting light, till the orange-red of dusk
Like a warning beacon from all that is cheerful
It is time.
Darkness arises and the moon refrains from a shine
All too clear, for it is weak to decline
The power of the night, and of its children
For when we are not blinded by the gold that is foolish
We shall see by silver true natures sublime.

Sreedevi Jagannath

Ignoramus, ignoramus...

Secrets and ceremonies
Riot and Ritual
Overpower incoherency
Turning habitual
Psyche and mentality
Work in mysterious way
Manifesting as Spiritual
Causing intimate decay
The Mind is weak
The heart weaker still
Caught in superstition
Eroding the will
An anchor is needed
The soul finding none
Death eats a little more
It is deemed bygone
Too late are veils
Lifted from sights
A glimpse and forever
Devoid of light.

Sreedevi

One too many times...

The sheets are so cold now that
There is only half the warmth
And your side of the bed
Is just a little too far
Over the chasm that’s opened
Since your latest faux pas
I want to admit that it isn’t your first
And although I hope it will,
It can never be the last
No matter how alone I’ll feel
Right now; it’s got to stop.
If I want to forgive you
I don’t know whatever for
It seems it’s your illusion
That it’s entirely my fault.
So while you lie there fuming
Over nothing at all,
I have to stop my mind turning
To forgetting it all; it will stop.
You’re a nice person
But you’ve never enough
And if I look over everything
Nothing’s left to give up
Sacrifice has to have a meaning
But with you it’s too much
My patience has run thin
Stretched over with scotch
I’d forgive you if I could
But you’ve broken my heart
There’s aren’t many pieces
To make one up; it has to stop.
One day you’ll miss me
Or maybe one day you won’t
I know I won’t be here
To care if you don’t.
Now it’s gone a little over the top
And it’s stopped.

Sreedevi.

Without the Light

Slivers of moon, dancing on your skin
White as pearls and silk akin
Dark eyes watch as eyelids droop
Transported to a land unknown

In realms beyond understanding or hope
As breath is evened and consciousness lost
A sigh, content and slow
Escapes from within, a touch of frost.

Dark eyes watch as slumber takes
Yet another victim, underneath her wing
A smile of pleasure, a frown of pain
And words too soft spent uttering

A name called and a touch rendered
While tales of bards be dreamed
A crimson pool flows, encumbered
By tongues and teeth, bloodied, gleamed.

A need so raw and primal by nature
Unravels as warm poison be drained
Healing and filling, to thirsty creature
Beast or man, with such poison sustained.

A moment too long, or many too brittle
A hunger instatiable, held within reach
True havoc be unleashed upon mere mortal
If ever such wants garner release.

Mercy is found with the dawn that breaks
Streaking with colours uncertain
Gaining in strength and curious ardor
Till night comes knocking, waiting again.

Sreedevi

An Idle Mind...

Often the mind is simply – well , Bored - and it finds the need to do something, lest it be overrun by ungainly thoughts and the sharp methodical slicing of fear, concerning events that, in most probability, may never occur.

Such is the case now, and here I sit, trying almost whole heartedly, to make some meaningful use of this blessed time of peace.

Surrounded by a chattering set of non-gifted people, who raise voices in a crass mockery of power, one often wonders why, just why?

Why do people tend to have an over-glorified sense of their selves?

Why do people take what doesn’t belong to them?

And why are they inclined to appear stupid, with each passing attempt to assuage others of their own intelligence?

I can produce no answers to such questions, and I vaguely hear my own mind mocking me in the Voice of God.

“Do not ask such questions of me, for even Miracles cannot bring you what you seek here.”

I can do little more than sigh and grace myself with a sardonic smile.

Truer words have never been spoken.

It is in such an environment, I suddenly find that for a very brief moment, my mind is thinking of nothing. Absolutely nothing; not even deigning to decipher the cacophony outside the window.

Simply hearing, not processing. Seeing and not looking.

And it is peace, and chaos in one.

Peace because for that moment, I am one with the immobile furniture, the walls, and the very ground; of course making the arrogant assumption that they process nothing more than nothing.

Chaos because it is a state that the mind, neither the body is accustomed to being, and panic briefly ensues once the moment has passed.

I believe the panic another brief moment when the mind asks itself first, “Am I still alive?”

Pointless as this essay seems, I have to agree that something born of pointlessness is probably, just that.

Albeit, it has given good exercise in rehashing vocabulary and the opportunity to sound even vaguely philosophical; not entirely pointless, in essence.

Perhaps it is time to close this digression and attempt finding more interesting things to do, but sadly, I find that in my eyes, writing this is rather more interesting than most other things expected of me.

It often feels like employment is but a way to smother unrequited desires in choice of the same, as long as possible, to avoid the torturous resurfacing of all that “could have been.”

Indeed, it feels that way.

A storm brewing within, that can be suppressed in as much as the daytime. Nothing is guaranteed to remain repressed while the mind is otherwise unoccupied, leading to such dreams as to leave the soul thirsting, or nightmares that leave the mind unwilling to let itself drift.

In our dreams, we are never free, and I once again arrogantly assume that in that brief moment, we are as close to death as the alive can hope, without truly getting there. In our death, I think we will be free; if not of anything, of our mortal obligations, insufficiencies and things equally vile.

Therefore, in that brief moment, before the mind has to ascertain that it is still alive, we are free. It is that taste of freedom, barely at the tip of our tongues, so to speak, that leave us longing for the day we die, consciously, or unconsciously, repeatedly or sparsely, longingly or reluctantly.

We all long for death. It is only a matter of time that it will be handed to us. But in the meanwhile, we can hope to attain such peace, in elongated moments till the occasion, where can join the gratefully, living dead.