Poetry: Where Is Your Heart?

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Lost, like a needle in a haystack,

Adrift, unable to find its way back.

A heart gone astray, off, long off,

Wandering in places yet unheard of.

 

Can I find you, find your essence,

Can I redeem you in the sun’s absence?

Is there a returning from this oblivion,

A coming back to the life you once had?

 

Everything is precious, but some more than others,

There’s nothing with which one thing does not bother,

Or one person: we do have our preferences,

Those things to which, gone, we’re loathe to make references.

 

Things like your heart, the space it left testifies,

Of the meaning it has, or had, this is hard.

I drop mine into that cavity, it drops (echo amplified),

And shatters, good intentions in a million shards.

Shards: The Leftovers

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Light and shadow, a pseudo-mixture of  darkness and the twilight slipping away. Dysfunction on steroids.

Torn, indecisive, unable to pick a side. The split personality, two warring halves of one unwholesome whole.

Bleeding in the rain, a punctured heart under a punctured sky, vitriol without violence pouring forth interminably.

As desperate as a cry for help, as needy as a motherless child. Mercy, have mercy on one to whom life has been merciless.

And then rage, fueled by hatred. A passion for morbidity, expressed as slashes across wrists and deeper wounds scarring the spirit.

We are our own enemy, the mirror reflects the man pointing the gun. A thousand demons, and we’re not even in Hell. Welcome to the undoing of souls, our own doing.

Poetry: What I’ve Done

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I’m no stranger to failure, and I know success well,
Of my victories and losses I am not afraid to tell.
For I am totally human, and Krypton is not my home,
I have learnt that life is not made of joy alone.

I know of broken hearts and unrequited love,
Of hatred, grief and the peace God sends from above.
I have smelt a booming rose and sniffed a homeless man,
They both have a place in His great big plan.

I have visited my past, through the eyes of the needy,
I relived yesterday and for myself was moved to pity.
I remember the piercing cold, the emptiness in my soul,
The longing for a miracle to make my spirit whole.

I’ve heard rumours of war and walked across a field of mines,
I’ve mediated a truce between me and what was mine.
I’ve given up on memories, my history is in the making,
And I’ll rewrite my future with these baby steps I’m taking.

Alternative Essays: The Laws Of Time

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The hands of the clock move without hesitation, driven as much by time’s innate need to keep score as by its primal desire to record the existence of things living and not. Unwittingly, the makers of horological devices assume that time can be trapped within mechanisms, its motion observed from behind a wall of glass and even altered with the turn of a screw or the push of a button. But time is more fluid than solid, and even that notion of fluidity is understandable only in mental terms, not as a tangible phenomenon — something that can be contained or grasped in a physical sense. For time is a spirit, a paranormal being that possesses inanimate bodies — be they clocks, sands in hourglasses or dwarf stars — constraining them to be its vehicles in the tireless duty of creating order and establishing control in an otherwise chaotic universe. Man is by nature made to obey the laws of time, to bend to its will and leap at its commands. And when he so unnaturally disregards its power, punishment is meted out as change — a morbid covering of even the most beautiful things with the onerous, pall-like dust of age or the inimical alteration of a status quo to compensate for every usurpation.

Long before the dawn of history, humanity was inadvertently drawn into conflict with time. That war has persisted through the ages, not abating or worsening, but fueled consistently by the instinctive yearning of mankind to preserve, delay and hasten, as the case may be. From the premature awakening instigated by an alarm clock, to the wrinkle-free skin guaranteed, within unreasonable limits, by anti-aging creams, man uses knowledge and its application to break the laws of time. But, not one to be bested by mere mortals, time the spirit takes back all due pounds of flesh by smoothening the man-ruffled fabric of its continuum. In an illustrative demonstration of that ernormous capacity to counteract man’s meddling, the fellow who is startled into wakefulness by an artificial noisemaker finds himself delayed by a traffic light, and the woman with the unwrinkled skin is struck with a bout of measles to, in a manner of speaking, balance the books.

Based solely upon time’s apparent ability to assert itself and maintain an equilibrium regardless of man’s actions of deduction and addition, the conclusion that its laws cannot be conclusively broken would be arrived at with little or no debate. But those of a differing opinion would argue that time has no laws, in the sense that laws that cannot be broken are not laws. At a cursory glance, the latter school might seem to have won an outright logical victory. However, it becomes clear upon closer examination that its point of view only serves to underscore the frightening power of time to make and unmake, to blur the lines between reality and illusion, to decide what is and what is not; existence and death held apart by a mere hair’s breadth of a second. And justifiable or not, denying the existence of time’s laws as well as its means to enforce them does not in any way diminish that gigantic supernatural force that inhabits the clock. Even if humanity runs out of time, it can never run out of time’s reach.

Why then do we pit outselves against time knowing full well that nothing good can come of our pitiable mortal struggle against an entity that defines life itself? Pride and an overdose of self-admiration have made us forget that even in its hour of blazing glory, the might of man is a puny force cowering in heaven’s leviathan celestial shadow. Humanity is fragile, its frame of existence influenced mightily by the subtle interplay of elements beyond its mental scope. We are paperweights in a universe of super-heavyweights, parlour trick magicians jostling with bastions of ancient wizardry. Considering that battles are lost with every blink of our collective eye, the hope to win this mindless war is not merely laughable, it redefines foolishness with stunning four-dimensional clarity. What lizard compares itself with a dragon? What crow attempts an eagle’s regal flight? The capacity to restrain time is beyond our means, though smaller gods we be, for what cannot be conceived cannot be felt and what is not felt cannot be subdued. Mind the clock.

Grains (On Stony Ground)

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Out here in the concrete jungle, without a friend,

Walking in a crowd of strangers all alone, unloved.

The path is unfamiliar, nothing is known of its bends,

Yet our feet are home upon it, like a hand in a glove.

 

We were made for more, for a much better world,

There’s a higher purpose to our earthly existence.

Human, man, it doesn’t matter what we are called,

We are beyond labels and names without consistence.

 

The spirits more than the flesh, the souls even more,

The hearts within us all, alive, beating to set us apart.

The Maker’s breath moves, a fluid fire lit in our core,

Masterpieces, creations of Heaven’s science and art.

 

Every spark lost, every piece of Paradise given away,

The candles blown out, the artificial changes, stains.

The blending in, the bandwagon life lived for a day,

Celestial beings strewn upon the stony ground, grains.