Dreams of a Dessicated soul

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Over that hill, there is a meadow,

It’s a dream, and that, I do know.

You’re here, and I’m here, holding hands,

Faraway from the world, this strange land.

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Riding on horseback, in the sunset,

Through the tall grass wavering,

Lightly in the breeze…

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It’s a dream, it’s a dream,

To whom do I tell this?

My life woven around it…

Like and intricate sculpture of art.

 

It was once a memory too,

You and me, riding together,

Through those summer fields of wheat.

Running and falling, climbing the hills;

Destiny had woven us with its eternal magic

On the loom of time, to be together forever…

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Then you were gone, and gone, and gone,

A hundred and twice centuries have passed,

And my abyss has been cold as death,

Life’s a distant memory – my sun hasn’t dawned.

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It’s just these dreams, subconscious,

Filtering through ice-cold water,

Like little bubbles of hope escaping,

Broadens up the light overhead.

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In this dream, today, I dream of you,

You’re here, and I’m here, holding hands…

And we’re here this moment and till eternity,

When you’ll come back, will I wake up.

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Otherwise I’ll never have let you go.
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Victor

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Over the horizon I can hear the battle-cry,

See the tiny red flag you wave at our enemies.

Your chariot, splattered with the blood and soil,

Brings me back your sweat, and an end to my wait.

Our home’s been desolate, dusty, your guitar.

My incomplete letters fills my desk,

Letters, I wouldn’t send you to bring you home.

It’s our world, I know your fighting for,

I must be selfless, but how can I be?

Your shirt, I wear to bed, at night,

Your scent lulls me asleep, and dreams.

The ghostly  us, happy and together is one.

The cries sound nearer, the flag grows bigger.

I wish it wasn’t a dream, and it was really you,

Coming home, a victor.

Prologue of “The Return of the Forsaken”

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I have spent countless restless nights, waiting, waiting, wishing for the end of the world. Wishing however is not the right word for it, since the word doesn’t cover it, aptly enough, the sensation, the burning desire that has consumed the best parts of me with it, over the centuries (or should I say millennia?)…Hell, it seems I do have lost my count after all! Worthless, futile has been this life, I know, I shouldn’t be allowed to live this life. I shouldn’t exist! Reduced to this weakling, I await death to come personally to drag me to hell, if there exists one, and yet, the wait is endless…

Am I dead? Can’t be, I am talking…but who is hearing? Someone definitely is…otherwise how would you all know about my personal rumblings? Am I alive? I don’t feel so…I have been hiding from all the world, people who are the off-springs of my own bloodline, in darkness, in shadows, I have been creeping around like the monster I am, watching my people die – in my own hands, some passing with time as well, perishing in bodies, fading in names… Watching changes everywhere, new lives, new faces, all the while I remained as I was. A stone. Harder than granite, I cannot fade. I cannot die. Yet nobody remembers me.

I am a monster, yes, I am. Suffering a fate, I’d myself brought upon me, cursed for all of eternity. I’ve just dragged on…without any family left, no friends either – just time and darkness, who’ve kept me company. But, I’ve had plenty of them. I have spent eons in my wait for the end, but fate doesn’t allow it. I have sinned, I deserve to be damned.

No, I deserve to be damned.

– – one soul mate, that is me – –

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As I see myself so happy, I am hurt.

There’s no reason for me to be happy anymore.

When my lips wouldn’t stretch further in a fake smile,

I find something wailing, unbearably loud, inside.

That shrill noise goes on breaching all my fortresses,

Setting to fire, my mighty monuments of fantasy,

And, ah, hope after all these years of pining in the inferno.

Sometimes I wish I could just pull it out of myself,

The deadly masque, which like symbiote,

Sticks to me, plays hoaxes through me.

The masque, that has slowly started,

To imitate me, but in subtle ways,

So very different.

 

Dreams that are never going to come true,

Why, O’ why, my dear heart,

Still so busy weaving them?

Why, wait for imaginary footsteps,

While living in a palace of glass,

In the middle of a desert lake?

 

At last like your only well wisher,

Like a hopeless Knight in shining armour,

For you, he never will be,

I wish to tell you of a few truths,

You’ve already always known as have I–

In the end, you will be the one, starkly alone.

Only your joy and blood will be hurt when,

Which already is too late, you decide it’s time;

To see the clear truths, that had been untouched all along.

That now you pretend to see and ignore.

The Park at “Spring’s Garden”

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Rusted leaves and brazen tree trunks,

Sooty boar tusks and fur dripping muck.

Cows walk amidst humans here,

Where squirrels too can give away a fright,

To scare off a big fat girl in red shorts,

To gather up her clothes and scream and run.

Then suddenly an old kite hunts down a lazy dove,

Relishes in with a cannibal smugness,

Its new prey’s flesh, while the rest of its flock,

Watches and flaps from afar, too dazed to act.

Then nearby, a girl with punk-style headphones,

Stamps her feet to the earth,

Puffing out a miniature sphere of dirt.

When I see her extracting a little red camera,

I figure, maybe, she’s an amateur photographer,

And she missed the most spectacular shot.

A kite tearing  out the entrails of that innocent dove.

I smile a little, wanting it badly to tell her:

Next time, leave your music at home or get a wireless.

More distractions for me. More people I see.

Here and there, somewhere into the deeper woods,

Where it’s too dark for the sunshine to peep thro’,

Show-off lovers fake their rendezvous,

Sometimes, holding, sometimes leaving hands.

Sometimes holding shiny, pricey techie baubles,

Tattooed with a half-eaten apple, which can’t even be eaten.

Faking the love, faking the passions, even their kisses,

Which is nothing but a pseudo status symbol,

Of some non-existent phase they think they’ve crossed.

I wonder to myself, these twosomes, threesomes,

Handsome people. How can they even for once think,

Turning a back to the world means the world won’t see you?

Well, it’s their problem, I tell myself, not mine!

Under the cover of the dry, barren trees’ shade,

Joggers, in their suits and tracks, slog around,

Hoping to water the dry, dry grass,

With their drops of sweat that fell on the ground.

The rusted leaves and the brazen tree trunks,

Remain standing, like they have, all along.

With no one to water them,

No one to sweep the leaves to a grave for once.

Parched in the want to be remembered and restored,

The old park stands firm in its wait.

Unlike the red humane benches of concrete,

Lives of the wooden trees can’t crumble away.

Maybe there’s another reason for this:

They’re green. Not red.

Yet.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And I too cannot sympathize.

I am  as well dressed all in red. Inside and out.

So I just leave. The Spring’s Garden,

Like a winter’s desert, still gasping for a tempest.