the fallacy of self

Sun Behind Clouds – Burnham Overy Staithe by Stephen Martyn

the sun bears the weight
(of a culmination of clouds)
trying to break through,
trying to hang on
to a clear sky
that has abandoned
any thought of light —

i see the silk-green texture of people
through my spring-leaf glasses
and everything seems distant
in the tunnel vision of my truths,

i wish to see, i wish i would not see
at times, when the daylight lifts its robe
to the hues of darkness within,
to the stories that I have kept in check
for long,

i am the fading away of a date, of a month,
of a year, spent in madness & confusion,
writing paeans to a sky devoid of any blue,
for the colours have kept me apparent
to the one who is no longer mine,
to the one, i wish to undo.

.

© Anmol Arora

Linking it up with the Poetry Pantry at PU

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Cowboy Dream

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I saw a cowboy in my dream last night,

robust, well postured with a snarl on his face

who hid his identity behind his hat for the most part,

but looked at me again and again sideways,

appraising me, calculating his notions about me,

and then he started to walk, step by step,

the voice of the crumbling mountain,

just before me he stood and punched me in the gut,

oh ah ah ah…. aha… ah… another punch and yet another,

until I lay lying on the ground clutching my tender stomach,

and the next sound I heard was that of a gun shot,

and I froze, as if the bullet would come piercing,

through my skin and muscles and tendons and attack the bone,

and may be create a gaping binocular hole,

finding its way back to the desert sun,

but I never felt anything, not pain, not numbness,

I made myself get up and saw blood spilled at a distance,

before my very eyes, I saw a stream of crimson flowing blood,

and the cowboy with his gun vertical breathing smoke,

he stifled a laugh as I touched his shoulder,

he was nothing but a hologram,

I flinched away from the distorted image,

and made my eyes gaze back worriedly at the fluid,

to find there was nothing at all there,

and just then, heard a voice up above me,

everything transformed, blue sky turned to lilac,

and the sun was no longer there but I saw three suns,

I shot up above with my revolver without any thought,

(where did I get the revolver? why did I shoot, what had happened?),

dream broke up like a dam and there was a tide of desert sand,

I pulled my shirt up to cover my eyes,

and crouched there to keep stable,

I never woke up for I knew it was something happening really,

but then it was way too fantastical,

soon the storm did pass and I looked up,

at the act that was performed before me,

that I was a significant part of,

hiding my identity behind my hat,

I stood robust, well postured,

a snarl was persistent on my face,

what I saw was a boy in tatters,

standing a few feet ahead looking at me strangely,

something urged me to walk towards him,

I did, appraising him, calculating my notions about him,

my hand rose up on its own accord as I stood before him,

and then a punch, another one, ah… uh… oho…,

punched him in the gut again and yet again,

he fell down in pain and I shot a bullet blindly,

clouds had distorted my vision,

another shift, another transformation,

I had become the cowboy

and nothing happened next,

there was light and I tumbled through it,

out of the world that seemed so real to me,

and I found myself rubbing my eyes,

saying only a single thing-

‘I am the cowboy:

 I was always the cowboy

of the ranch of my life,

of my sight, my mind’

.

* I barely know anything about cowboys. I have never been interested in the movies or books based on them. The little I know is because of the snippets of information I got from here and there. I have created an image of cowboy, molding the idea into something I could easily relate with or write about and most of all, create through my imagination. I guess it could be used as a cowboy poem around the bonfire (I am kidding). I am submitting the link for dVerse Poetics. dVerse Poets Pub is a wonderful community of poets from all around the world who come forth to share their creations for the various prompts related to poetic forms and styles posted throughout the week.

Evolution

The evolution of a being

from the childhood’s reverie

to a grown up’s veracity

from the glimmer of the stars

to the blaze of the sun

from a small injury

to a large gaping wound

from an innocent vision

to a gruesome deed

from the world of truth

to the universe of tall tales

from a fresh water lake

to the ever salty ocean

from the protection of the nest

to the vast lonely sky

from a seed that is sown

to a pest infected plant

from the drop of nectar

to an urn of venom,

the evolution of an infant

to a grown up soul

tarnished by world

shaded by emotions

from the afternoon nap

to the insomniac nights

from the playful toys

to the killer weapons,

there is an evolution

a real evolution

of a spirit as he turns

from a joyful mirth

to an evil sneer in the end.

* Written in response of Theme Thursday Writing Prompt.