A Serial Offender

I.

Late night,

Scented sheets,

Crazed dementia.

Pictures on the screen doing their job.

Urgency to release myself,

Guilt on my mind,

A sinner on the loose.

What has become of our sacred playground?

I’ve finally become the animal you claimed I was.

II.

Temperature rises minute by minute,

Sweet sweat appears on my head,

Condescension trickles down my frozen heart.

Rain clouds gather in the sky-

Thick, grey, bursting at the seams and heavy.

Threatening to erupt from the canvas of the gods,

Threatening to tear his masterpiece apart,

A lightening strikes oblique across the sky.

III.

Oh! Zeus evermore supreme!

I’ve fooled myself into many a things,

but this?

This works perfectly every time.

IV.

Awash in Endorphins- I’m an inward slacking jelly now.

Spent without a shred of sincere effort,

I’m a crime scene meticulously erased.

The mandate for my survival is complete.

Faked!

Orchestrated!

No wonder I’m content without anything.

V.

Be fruitful and multiply.’

God had said the day he created me.

But what do you do of the slithering serpent cunning?

What do you do of the forbidden fruit low-hanging!?

How does a mortal resist the lure of the original sin?

VI.

Body unconscious of the conscious crimes,

Ignorant of the difference in between-

Awards me a night of heavenly, dreamless sleep.

Only enraged further, the Gods curse me a renewed suffering.

I wake up gutless.

My body is a cold, tired sack of meat.

I am an infinite, unending abyss.

My earnings counted only in laziness and greed.

***

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Quote of the day

“Nine-tenths of wisdom is being wise in time.”

~Theodore Roosevelt

The Birdcatcher

It whistles, sings,

hops on random branches

and flies around.

He needs to keep trying.

Hoping it will know the forest of his discipline one day,

Hoping a tree will emerge a worthy home-

He keeps planting more seeds.

Lost in a dream of spring,

His sweat trickles in righteousness.

Desert sun evaporates away seconds,

The oasis- a vivid reality in his mind,

Illusions are nice sometimes.

The sweet chirping echo overhead-

A signal-

An omen for a better life;

A tune stuck in his ears.

All he knows is his lone toil;

the burns & the rage of his tiring emotions.

But despite his fancies, he doesn’t need that much.

A bit of discourse, camaraderie-

Some fairness?

But surely not any rest.

A vacant sky,

A giant heating torchlight-

His hands keep working.

Greying hairs,

Slipping sand,

His hands keep working.

Head spins,

Eyes dances rainbows,

His hands keep working.

Body falls.

Heart stops.

His hands still working?

The forest is ready.

The tree is an enthused host for the happiness bird.

But who’s it for to enjoy anyway?

Who knows of these soothing waters amidst an endless burning sea?

‘Live for yourself, Dad!’

The damaged boy pleads.

Live…

and let that be enough for them tiny birds-

and us little kids, too.

***

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Quote of the day

“Spend all you have for loveliness,

Buy it and never count the cost;

For one white singing hour of peace

Count many a year of strife well lost,

And for a breath of ecstasy

Give all you have been, or could be.”

~Sara Teasdale