Wednesday, 7 December 2016


It intrigues me to still not know what I really am. From the existential question I have shifted to the perennial question From who I am I have shifted to what am I? What makes up this little body and enormous believes? This thin skin and thicker kins? This cold touch and the wild June nights? This walking wardrobe and nothing to Cover from the cold. This open book and stories untold This all ears deception to words not heard. This visionary loss that puts the blame on darkness. The time goes back in time to ask the rhetorical question. As to what? Really what am I?

Evil Muse

Impersonal as much as it might be ,
Poetry always has shades of me.
Though not dyed deep in my color or soaked in my fragrance , it still carries an aura of my being. It caresses me during the futile nights be it boredom or romance. It fights with my demons but just to make way for the evil conquerors.
They now reside with me, higher than me.
My palace hosts the enemy's flag with as much pride as it did mine. Without knowing the difference it stands still, smiling at the passers by. Its ruled by me, me who's ruled by evil. Evil who made its way through my joys and made a sluggish room of my desires. Know they lie there both evil and aloof. Merry making.
Lighting candles carved out of my skin. Drinking wine, wasting all the fluid inside me. Tearing my masks it exposes me naked to make a flag of whatever is left. The flag still stands and smiles at the passers by. Made in red and burned at edges is the new sign. Hanging on my walls is the sludge driven out of your hellish instincts. Vacate my palace ,oh evil muse for its been a long time.
My lover is waiting for the reply of his letter. And he appreciates only light romance..