Brimstone Roots

fire

The mind repeats its
natural cycles of entranced retrospection, and
caught unawares, and unmoving,
I fight,
I struggle,
I shiver,
I shake,
I writhe, as perhaps
some primal and formless instinct for self-preservation
seeks to scamper.. to flee.. to somehow
escape.. to somehow outrun this
unrelenting circuit…
in
austere terror..!!

   
In vain… I try
to calm
the cornered animal, driven
far beyond its bearable thresholds
for panic,
pain, self-persecution, and paranoia,
telling it
that this is somewhere
it must learn to live…
as this isn’t somewhere
it can run away from, because
it couldn’t bear to leave here either…
this apocalyptic mindscape
of unending eclipse and disembodied shadows..
a state fated to be subject, evermore,
to quotidian submersion and violent welling..
surely and unavoidably,
as the lasting remainder of something
far too precious
to abandon…
and
far too harrowing.. to face.

   

Giving Up Again

There are times
when you can’t be brave alone…
after putting up the bravest front
before your dying.

 

There are times
when it’s simpler to escape
the tyranny of your own thoughts
and rampant recollection, in withdrawal
to the most trivial of pastimes
that disengage you from the true present
and disallow the mind to wander
back to inescapable reality
for just… a little
while.

 

There are times
when eclipsing inevitability holds you
mercilessly down in powerless submission
and compels you to take refuge in
i
s
o
l
a
t
i
o
n
from history, the future and
the thinking self.

Trains

Trains

Can’t tell
where I’ve been living
for years now, from moment
to moment in precarious enthrallment
of endless chaotic, flickering, fleeting destinations decided
by the fitful eye of the mind, rummaging relentlessly
to submerge itself in warmer waters of safer memories, while feeling them
ceaselessly funnel, drawn unto colder moors of perpetual forgetfulness, oft
confusing some true past
with imagined moments
of surreal, impossible juxtapositions
of disparate times and realities, while
lessons learnt had turned too clichéd to take seriously
long ago, as companion travellers dismounting their common carriage
at unforeseen and unchangeable stops, one by one,
to disappear soon and surely into the rear distance till
part of an indifferent horizon,
one by one,
another after another,
as long and as surely as the rails run ahead and as sure
as some truisms ring that despite all endearment, the traveller
is essentially alone; condemned, where it matters, to never truly return;
destined, when it matters, to never really leave.

Empire of Dirt

 

abandoned-blur-bricks-205325

And if you look
a little
closer, the street
had always stretched to the floor
of your living room, for soles
in restless transit. And soon,
we find it is to be left
with less and less, the more
one learns abandon. By now,
you’re used to spectacles
of homes becoming houses and
live farther away, but dwell
in missing memorabilia.
It is nature, in
all probability, that
tells us to leave things broken
when there’s too little left
to make them whole. And the street
will last longer than the strays
asleep on the sidewalk, as our rooms
are meant to outlast us. So,
before things cease to matter,
perhaps
it’s better
to have our own hands
tear down the deserted manors
of our own damage, than
see them annexed
and reclaimed by the lasting reign
of grime and green.