redemption

made of bare bones
and sticks,

clay-modeled diagrams,
chips of a china doll —

the earth-buoyed body cricks,
cracks, like the door,
seldom opened.

i wait to be explored,
i seek redemption,
in

the thickets,
calls of
a cuckoo,

the arms of
my
chthonic god.

~

 

Intermingling psychology and symbolism with my current state of mind, a little something for dVerse Quadrille #63

Image source: Vincent Van Skelly (a parody of Van Gogh’s Self Portrait with Bandaged Ear) by Marie Marfia

And here’s something moody for you:

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for over a month now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

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For the boy within me

 

too afraid to speak,

you must not be helpless,

nor shall I let you become me

because I belong to the same creed

as they have been, who channeled all

the thoughts to cross their mind, in words

branching out of their brain, and well they do

leave my material, beading into a wreath of mute

cicadas as my empathy for your cancer of speechless

tendencies, so chew over some of them to release essence

of the beastly shells, and gulp down all your emotions in poison

of my cheat, so you die

.

Linking it with Sunday Whirl’s Wordle 158.

Image source

A self I have that kills when I am looking away

there I am decaying in

garbled words that escape my mouth,

divine intervention necessary

to keep me balanced on the ground,

as I burst open my tongue

throwing darts of mantras of

the language inherent in my nature

(which I would understand but I couldn’t),

.

that replies to stories of the future devised

that coils around my toes, up my thighs

piercing the heart with screeching pain

of ability hindered by self

that disintegrates with the slightest touch,

.

I am wicked, wane, vulturous, picking,

biting into my own putrid flesh

that reeks of ignorance and curse

of being the being that I am,

.

the night doesn’t offer condolences

but hypnotizes me in a lullaby

and the day virtuously smiles

keeping me adrift on a rowing boat

that only stays afloat to be falling apart,

.

they come and suck my vicious blood

to be cursed with my curse that is,

they arrive and leave their marks

which I rip apart to flow more of my self

as a bait for the poor enemy to consume me

before I dissect myself into pieces

spread on a broken road, lungs deflated,

stomach churning feet away, and my heart

in my palms, leaking, shrieking, as life

strangles it into numbness and there’s silence

.

Image source

I am

I am a drunkard of emotions,

swirling around in circles,

expected to cry words of wisdom

while I cling to the edges of conscious,

.

I am a prophet of pious proportions,

thunder crackles up in my head,

neurons against neurons playing

the song of my insanity,

.

I am born to hurt myself,

and mend all the bones I crack

by the absurdity of my notions,

applying salt to my wounds,

.

I am a sleepy monk of silence,

in meditation of my thoughts,

vain, egotistic, self-possessed,

clinging to the edges of self,

.

I am a coward of carcass speech,

playing trumps with the world,

tying the noose of binds,

across my saggy throat,

.

I am the one you sneer at,

the one who is strange, queer,

because I have embraced myself,

destining myself to a life of bane

.

Photo source

Submitting the link for:

1. Sunday Wordle

2. Poetry Jam

This is not a personal piece. Thank you.