History

An ancient umbilical cord is tethered to my hair,

It is the skeletal arm of history.

A grotesque thing, at once decayed and decaying,

All its color slowly drained away into greyness.

There is no escape from this weight of centuries

Burdens of sand upon our shoulders

Just like Ouroboros futile meal of his own tail,

His dance with time consuming him whole.

And so we continue our ungainly duet as the seconds pass.

As he takes me, so do I peer over his shoulders,

We gasp staring into the infite gaze of the comos,

Only by stepping on those who have come before us.

Once great men of their time,

Now grey figures of coarse sand,

Binding us, as we bind them,

Escaping too, from the inescapable.

In my mind there is a road.

It is covered by a threadbare blanket of dried leaves.

The leaves stir gently in the swollen air,

Tiny eddies of wind nudging them along the path.

Overhead, the sky burns amber.

There is a streak of dark grey slashing through it midway,

And as I watch, the grey wound grows bigger, bleeding into the sky.

Soon it rains, a soft carpet of water covers the road and the leaves on it.

Rain bounces gently off the leaves and the road.

There are halos of bouncing water around every object,

Around the road surface, upon the leaves blanketing it.

And above all, the rain blanketing the leaves.

Blankets upon blankets.

A eulogy

I’ve stared at this paper for an hour now, and its blankness gazes back at me.

There is something mocking in the way  light glints off the beady little lines where words should be.

This single, reproachful shee of paper, still empty after an hour, makes the mind wonder.

Do I mourn for the departed, or do I lament my inability to love,

The futile spams of a heart long stoned against the edges of the world, so as to sink them with it.