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Self-flagellation: The Last Highway out of Hell
This is not redemption—it is penance without absolution.
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He whips himself, he whips himself very hard,
his silent screams, hiding behind an ugly grimace
The cat-o’-nine-tails screams like a mad banshee,
the knots striking in a frenzy, a blood thirsty race
Each lash is a tribute, a homage to a specific memory,
a black hole in the whole black and vast space of life
Each stroke exposes a white pulsating nerve,
a silver snake writhing under a very sharp knife
________________________
He hurts himself, he hurts himself so real bad,
drawing crimson patterns across his naked back
The skin breaks, and ruby drops appear one by one,
thickening, congealing, stinking, and turning black
The flow of blood sometimes turns into a rivulet,
drops transforming into streams, streams into creeks
Crimson spatters his bent shoulders and the spine,
tracing the paths of pain and the punishment it seeks
________________________
He makes himself suffer; he suffers for very long,
feeling the whip slither within the stinking, thick slush
The skin is no more, his back is all but raw flesh,
but his overpowering regret, the whip fails to crush
‘Oh! Why do you punish, why do you hurt yourself?’
the Devil asks him with a mockingly soft sympathy
And God, He just turns his face away in disgust,
there is no place for him in His great hall of empathy
________________________
‘I walk the path of pain, I have chosen it for myself,’
he answers and grips the whip firmly and caresses it
‘I penalize myself, I pass each judgment harshly,
I condemn myself; the fire of misery is always lit
Self-flagellation is my penance for sins so many or few,
it is a dark journey, and I have been travelling ever since
Self-flagellation is the last highway out of my own hell,
while my soul burns in agony, I remain the exiled prince’
Where is that Sweet, Sad Place where Elephants go to Die?
A journey into the mythic graveyard of memories, guilt, and dreams that refuse to die.
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Where is that sweet and sad place,
perhaps lost forever in both time and space,
upon the brazen earth and under the grey sky,
where elephants go to die?
Strength and might sometimes fail,
in the face of raging fire, rain and hail
Failure exhausts the strongest of souls,
when we repeatedly fail to achieve our goals
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Where is that dark and cold womb,
devoid of all life, it’s really a tomb,
when one fails each challenge and test,
where worries finally come to rest?
Worries, which were once peacefully silent,
but now extending their tentacles, cruel and violent
My worries are not making a submissive bow,
my worries are kicking and screaming now
________________________________________
Where is that vast desolation of heart,
where the sun never shines as the clouds do not part,
where all of us are destined to be, the fools and the clever,
where dead love breathes its last and rests forever?
Memories, which were once pretty and colourful,
but now have haunting eyes, dull and dreadful
Memories are not compelling me to make a new vow,
my memories, are dead and only skeletons now
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Where is that unfathomably deep, black hole,
which silences all greed, and the dreams it once stole,
where regrets crawl and plead infernally,
where guilt is finally dead and is buried eternally?
Guilt, once a rare acquaintance and even a stranger,
it was a horse called Diablo, without a ranger
My guilt is watching me with a frowned brow,
my guilt is a monster, a menacing presence now
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I fear their accusations, their dead, hollow stare,
the evil was afar, yet somewhere close here
I loathe their presence and hold onto my spear,
the damnation was afar, yet somewhere so near
My anguish and my fear, I scream and I mumble,
my agony and my dread, I run and I stumble
I scream and I run, I make a final try,
to reach that place where elephants go to die
Songs of Innocence
When you are two, the world is a big fat rainbow circling your cot. Your pleasures are limited to a warm bottle of milk and your troubles hardly ever exceed a wet diaper or two. But when you are four that is when the magic truly starts.
Symphony of Loss
Perhaps it was never really love—only obsession wearing a beautiful mask.
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Let you and me sit in the dark glen of misery,
and turn the faded pages of our long-lost history
The words have evaporated into the space and time,
while our souls were dancing their egoistic mime
____________________
Let you and me play the symphony of bitter loss,
and try to trace our names in the wet green moss
The moisture has dried, the fragrance is gone,
while our patience was waiting for another dawn
____________________
Let you and me sit under the old and bent trees,
and collect the shattered pieces of sun on bent knees
The leaves have all dried and are crumbling into bits,
while we were fighting each other to the end of our wits
____________________
Let you and me think of passion spent and gone stale,
and recollect broken dreams, faded and already pale
They have receded into oblivion, the vision has died,
while we were pursuing our desires on a high tide
____________________
Let you and me cry and scream our hearts out,
and try to fill in the cracks left behind by drought
The cracks are widening with the passage of time,
while we thought forgiving was an unthinkable crime
____________________
Let you and me hold each other under the stars,
and find solace in intimacy, which was never really ours
The kisses have gone bland, and the embraces so cold,
while we stood against each other, feeling so bold
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Let you and me erase each other and forget what we had,
and allow our longing to die instead of rotting and going bad
The stink is burning our eyes and bringing unwanted tears,
while we focused on our ambition and our very own fears
____________________
Let you and me say farewell and forget we were in love,
and permit our hearts to heal like a wounded dove
Perhaps it was never love that we thought we had,
perhaps it was just a crazy obsession, making us both mad
Shehryar khawar 