Tag Archives: symbolic poetry

The Autumn Outside, and the Autumn Within

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A season that never ends.

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Outside, autumn reigns with colors of gold and rust,

walking in fancy colors, is really a sad, old whore

Within, the autumn stays forever, heaps of ash and dust,

it was born when I was born, will die when I’m no more

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Outside, there is a verdict, a cruel and harsh judgment,

unsolicited and uninvited, yet delivered firmly in the face

Within, there exists failure, dark, rotten, and repugnant,

it was born when I was born, will die when I quit the race

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Outside, there is refusal, a hard and cold rejection,

imparted cruelly, yet justified and utterly sensible

Within, there exists misery, a bitter and dark dejection,

it was born when I was born, will die as I am dispensable

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Outside, there is warmth, an almost useless affection,

a product of reciprocity, mere courtesy, and manners

Within, there is love - a brightly burning perfection,

it was born when I was born, will die with lowered banners

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Outside, there is sadness, and within it is always blue,

in perfect harmony, the weeping violin and the crying cello

Outside, the autumn reigns, and within, there is an autumn too,

were there when I was born, will fade as the ink turns yellow

The Custodian of Unfulfilled Dreams

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broken_dreams_by_spacewizzard666_dd2e8pd-fullview

A kingdom where broken dreams go to die—and a king who refuses to abandon them.

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Far away from all this filth and all this stinking mold,

there is a secret and silent realm of unfulfilled dreams

The realm is colorless, neither silver nor purple nor gold,

no laughter or singing, just a chaos of cries and screams

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Each dream, once it’s shattered, and in pain it cries,

it enters the realm, hearing some command unspoken

The horn of time does not blow; it is silent and so wise,

as the dreams lay trampled, crying and utterly broken

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There he sits at the gate, the old and tattered King,

the sad custodian of dreams, he protects and lovingly guards

He has neither a throne, nor a seal, nor a royal ring,

he wears only a crown of thorns and sharp glass shards

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The dreams are his children, a few are even his very own,

he cradles their delicate heads and lovingly treats their sores

Some dreams have broken wings, and some have never flown,

yet he loves them all, whether they are his own, mine, or yours

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The King has tears in his eyes; he cries over the wounded dreams,

he knows they are going to finally die, his efforts are all in vain

The dreams whimper as life bleeds out, in rivulets and in streams,

the King knows they are the last drops of a rare desert rain

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Each dream, when it breathes its very last and silently dies,

he gently kisses its dead eyes, singing the last lullaby

The King is sad, oh, he is so very sad, but still he desperately tries,

caring for dreams, without asking ‘to what end’ or even a ‘why’

The Ugly Face of Happiness

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What if happiness is not sweet salvation, but poisonous seduction?

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Happiness is a wretched prostitute,

in fancy clothes and a painted attire

Her seduction is old, in fact, it is ancient,

but it tastes fresh on the lips of desire

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Happiness is the sprinkled and colored dust;

on a butterfly’s wings as the summer lingers

The colours seem eternally captivating,

but they fade within the grasp of greedy fingers

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Happiness is a deceptive illusion,

projected by the frozen moments of time

The illusion seems perfectly alluring,

but it shatters with the very next chime

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Happiness is a vulture atop the tree of life,

disguised as a magnificent bird of paradise

The brilliance of its colours blinds the eyes,

while its greedy heart is as chilling as ice

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Happiness is opium dulling our senses,

overwhelming the awareness like magic

Its fumes give a pleasure so insane,

while it blinds us to the misery, so tragic

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Happiness is pursued, yes, but only by fools,

but it is not trusted by the wise, not at any cost

Happiness breeds hard and cruel insensitivity,

while sadness brings understanding, when all is lost

Song of Lilith

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Before Eve, before obedience, there was Lilith—and she asked why.

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O’ Lilith, our one mother, and the equal,

was it really you?

Upon the flowers of Eden,

the very first drops of dew?

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You were created out of wet earth,

the very first man’s very first mate

You were his equal, you were his partner;

a companion to him, his destiny, his fate

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It was you who took his side,

and it was you who reasoned

It was you who protested the submission,

the Devil’s shrewdness was so seasoned

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But then you were made a demon,

a vile and dark entity

But then you were made the fiend,

and you lost your real identity

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Were you really corrupt at some level?

Or did you have a rotten soul?

Is it because you are the logic,

which defies all faith and Adam’ role?

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Is this because you realized the concept,

or is this because you disobeyed God?

Or is it because you understood Him,

seeing religion as the original fraud?

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O’ Lilith, I think it was really you,

our only mother and the equal

You could be our grand salvation,

perhaps, the only chance we knew

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You gave birth to reason;

you did not birth us, perhaps

And you gave birth to justice,

reason and justice, victims of our lapse

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We have inherited your wisdom,

though we do not carry your genes

Let it lead to understanding the purpose,

let it become the fundamental means

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O’ Lilith, our one mother, and the equal,

was it really you?

Upon the flowers of Eden,

the very first drops of dew?

Where is that Sweet, Sad Place where Elephants go to Die?

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elephant-kenya-340364

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

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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