Silent Sermon.

Whether I whisper these words to no audience in a dust filled, deserted room,
or yell them louder than a roaring waterfall in the middle of bright, abandoned woods,
they will still fall on deaf ears, as they have for many years now,
they will still be the antecedent to my typhoon tears.

More callous than the hands of world class bodybuilders,
fragile as wet sand that falls apart between my fingers,
brittle as diamonds often confused to be quite strong,
quieter than the lark who's lost her gift of song.

You became my new addiction, quicker than seconds turned to minutes,
I was yours before I knew it, suddenly in it to win it.
This fascination took hold of me, it was like getting lost in the pages of a good book,
unbeknownst to me, you were a thief of hearts, a common crook.

You had my destiny in your hands, yet you chose to walk away,

held all the ingredients to cure my loneliness, instead you let me go astray.
I should've listened when they said to never leave myself to find someone else,
wish I had paid attention when my mother warned me you were bad for my health.

Vitriol.

Born with an acid tongue, you launched verbal attacks that ended careers.
Like burn victims in India, you lashed out to defend perceived threats against your honour. 
Sonic boom—the sound of each blow landing like atomic bombs in Hiroshima. 
Nagasaki even knew you created more casualties than Iwo Jima. 
Instead of saliva, you spit genocide, each word its very own Holocaust. 
Casual remarks were like concentration camps, reuniting divided families in chambers gassed. 
Vocal terrorism, with every sentence ending in beheading.
The scars you left were like brands by iron rod on broken hearts.

Vidhava.

The stark contrast between the brown sand
and the bright orange flame of funeral pyre,
set her mind ablaze with her own devastation,
now that life had changed in an instant.

Despite her own bereavement,
or the insurmountable grief corroding her,
her own children’s accusatory stares
convinced her she was somehow responsible.

Once expected to self-immolate,
for a life without a spouse was not worth living,
fortunately some progress had been made,
now her exile was all that was required.

Plaited hair removed in patches,
revealing the tender scalp it covered.
A woman’s worth has no value,
in patriarchal lands ruled by tradition.

Alas, this sacrament was all for religion,
as she received the white sari that was now her only uniform.
Stripped of her name, she joined her renounced sisters,
in this ashram built on the tears of women who knew her pain.

There is no social death like widowhood:
the loss of one’s spouse, status, and title in a day.
Punishment for the misfortune of being female,
her existence ostracized
until she also believes that she has failed.

The Visit.

Silhouettes and photographs, 

through the graveyard, 

walking fast, 

Depression era screenplays, 

around the corner 

fudge is made.

Streets now broken

once were paved, 

dystopian playground 

that can't be saved

blasting off like 

rocketships, 

careful to mind 

broken hips.

Steadfast like masts 

on olden ships, 

chocolate cookies 

without the chips, 

a bust of a long 

forgotten mannequin, 

shares cobwebs and dust 

with lustful novels harlequin.

Pornography disguised as romance, 

good for nothing more than laughs, 

that once filled the room, 

then caked the walls;

the floral prints inside the hall.

Buttons strewn across the floor,

sensible spools of yarn,

and cutting boards,

I memorize ev'ry cracked tile,

one day, I will emulate her style.

When all things old are new again,

and I wish I’d paid closer attention.

Careless clouds of smoke 

billowed with each puff,

of her menthol cigarettes

that made me cough.

Murder mysteries flashed 

on the silver screen,

whodunits solved by 

faded beauty queens.

She relives her glory days,

filled with movie stars 

and runaways.

Yesterday always sounds so neat,

when she talks of brawls 

that spilled into the street.

The ruthless record player slows to a halt;

hair once fiery red is now pepper-salt.

Classically beautiful, 

reeking of sophistication,

a kiss placed on each cheek, 

I'm fascinated.

My connection to the golden age

closes the door, 

then waltzes away.

Unbeknownst to me,

this would be the last time,

I would sip mint juleps 

and drink sherry wine.

My fairy grandmother 

slipped away that night,

dancing off into the starry light.

Ancient Love.

In the stone ages, I chased you for days,

hunted all the prey so we could make a home out of our cave.  

Prehistoric times could not even break my stride,

my only real concern was making sure we both made it out alive.  

Even though the threat of being eaten alive was always a factor,

with you by my side, nothing else really ever mattered.  

I was grateful every morning when the sun would rise,

our love story began in the land before time.

I drew pictures of us on walls so that future generations would know of our love,

with our children in your arms while my own held a club.  

As the days passed by, and we learned how to grow our own food,

I added smiles to their faces to properly reflect our moods.  

We had made it now that we could settle

and watch our boys grow into mesolithic men,

a connection this strong

could make it through any mass extinction.

We danced around the fire in worship of the gods,

the festival of Dionysus always left us awed.  

We laughed in merriment whilst watching comedies,

then consoled one another as we weeped during the tragedies.  

Inseparable even in Ancient Greece, we saw the rise of democracy,

then spent our nights drinking wine and debating philosophy.  

Nothing could come between our love, it would not even matter if you were a slave,

society could not change the fact that your olive skin was all I craved.  

Electricity fills the air, rumour has it that a prince is born,

Queen Maya's said to even have dreamt of a white elephant with six horns.  

We watched in awe as this boy aged into a fine and mighty prince,

who denounced his riches once he encountered his subjects’ suffering.  

I could understand his decision to leave his fortune and wealth behind,

for all I needed in this life was your presence by my side.  

Around the same time Gautama traded his riches for rags,

I was surrendering to our love, and raising my white flag.

When the Roman Empire claimed Egypt as its own,

I was there to quel your fears when Cleopatra was dethroned.  

Although her affair with Mark Antony is the original love story,

their romance could not hold a candle to the warmth between you and me.  

Walking hand in hand through the great pyramids with you,

was all it took for me to feel pharaonic and brand new.

We built our mud brick home along the Nile's fertile riverbank,

at night, we worship Geb for providing us with food and drink.  

Our ancient love survived the rise and fall of empires,
it saw the invention of the wheel and even fueled the first fire;
civilizations would never have collapsed if they knew the secret to our bliss,
no amount of time could erase a love like this.

Rapidcycling.

Dance of the drunk and dazed,
wide awake, as slumber slips away,
escaping through a crack in wooden wall,
floating in merriment down empty halls.

With spirits high, singing a sailor song,
soon the gentry will arrive, it won't be long.
Life is like a lullaby when seen through cloudy eyes,
feather light and floating in fleecy skies.

Just like a babe learning to use their feet,
toddle up and down childhood's familiar streets.
Nostalgia nears as life flashes releasing a sigh,
forgotten faces suddenly seem so nigh.

Memories rush in, crowding the room,
sweeping away the cobwebs that once loomed.
Day dreams as dusk paints the world pink and red,
once night falls, the children must be abed.

To innocence we once again return,
free from worry or concern;
fast asleep before the lights are dim,
in peace, at last, life becomes a phantom limb.

Dictator.

Disparaged my weakest,

violated my nation’s most chaste,

vandalized its buildings,

and pillaged then raped. 

Your fascism ruined through

demoralizing others with your scrutiny,

sending their confidence careening

until all they had left was insecurity. 

Claimed to care about your people

though all they looked like to you were dollar signs,

capitalized on their losses
every time you attacked from behind. 

You were the Chairman of China,

or Hitler, sometimes Stalin,

with more kills than Genghis Khan

or Napoleon’s armies. 

You ruled like Caligula;

man, woman, nor beast were safe,

calculatedly divided unions

creating separate states.  

Abandoned all reason,

you committed senseless murders for fun;

threatened your people with execution

if they dared to run. 

Your thirst for blood was not slaked

until your body count was more than one million,

your bloodline may be insane

but there can only be one Kim Il-Sung. 

Should anyone fail to revere

their supreme leader,

your minions would toss them

into the Taedong River.

No weapon was too mighty,

missiles, gases, nor grenades,

death by hanging will end your reign,
similar to Saddam Hussein.

You delighted in violence,
just like Vlad the third,
impaled all your victims,
then bathed in their blood.

A name like yours is

solely synonymous with genocide,
you were mean like Mugabe,
with Idi Amin’s pride.

Only you would attempt to minimize murder
by renaming it the Red Terror,
it was evident in every failed assassination attempt
that you were more vile than Vladimir Lenin.

Similar to Enver Pasha’s addiction to power,
instead of being ashamed for being a coward,
you wiped out two million to compensate for each loss,
without stopping once to consider the actual cost.

Simply put, you were the worst dictator unleashed on mankind,
without you, history would not have fallen so far behind
The clearest consequence of your sick, criminal mind
is that your "eye for an eye" ideology made the whole world blind.

Concerto.

Hold me against your body,
run your fingers along my magic strings,
turn each stroke into a haunting melody,
strum away my pain and make me sing.

Gently press your lips against me,
wet them and then softly blow,
with each exhale, I let out a sigh,
then slowly lose control.

Whether you’re an amateur,
or the maestro of the symphony,
the music we make is a consequence
of our classical chemistry.

Pretend I am a piano,
let your fingertips dance wildly on my ivory keys,
silence your suffering with moonlit sonatas,
finesse me with my very own Fur Elise.

Now blow into me with all your might,
let me blare like trumpets and French horns,
empty your lungs into my own,
then listen proudly as I fill every corner of the room.

Count the beats and keep the tempo,
when you bang me like a drum.
Smash into me like cymbals,
swaying in vibrato to the rhythm.

When you’re feeling blue,
cradle me like a saxophone,
let my sweet jazz soothe your sorrows,
until you remember you are not alone.

Whether you prefer the balalaika,
the sitar or the mandolin,
your hands will always know
the right notes to play on my violin.

Slide your bow across my bodice,
seduce me with its soft skin,
your musicality never fails to amaze me,
every note in consonance.

Epilogue.

Once so desperate for your attention

that I did handstands and magic tricks,

just for a bit of your affection,

I swallowed fire and chewed on bricks. 

I wanted you to notice me,

and like all that you would see,

yearned for your love so deeply,

like it could make me happy. 

Now in the aftermath of us,

I see that I couldn’t have been more wrong,

you made me believe in fairy tales

before you robbed me of my song. 

Stripped me of my confidence,

every time you berated me for your own indiscretions,

your insecurities ate you alive,

they were the reason why you viewed me as your possession. 

Convinced me that you cared,

claimed that you had never been in love like this;

until you left and abandoned me,

alone to fend for myself on a sinking ship. 

Your kiss, sweeter than Belgian chocolate,

and smoother than ice wine,

quickly became toxic,

like poisoned turpentine. 

Naiveté, the reason why I fell for all your games,

foolishly believed our love was hotter than fire,

despite not seeing any flames. 

Now that I have been transformed

by the absence of you,

I have changed and grown so much

that I am now brand new. 

My heart is no longer wounded,

my skin is thick once again,

no amount of love’s carnage

will ever cause me pain. 

I am a warrior now,

a fighter with an army of one,

I would rather be alone, in love with myself,

than share my bed with anyone. 

Infinity.

You were Aurora-Borealis right,

and brighter than the northern lights;

nothing else in this world, 

came close to the beauty you possessed. 

Whether you were fully dressed, or naked as they come,

every single bead of sweat that found itself upon your neck,

was more beautiful than the rest; 

nothing else was similar. 

Even your breath was musical, 

you wrote hit songs when you exhaled;

I could watch you all day long, 

studying your every move. 

The way your chest rose and fell was reminiscent of the ocean’s tide,

it ebbed and flowed pulling me deeper inside our love. 

Hands softer than the whitest sands, 

no feet have ever known such magnificence.  

Those eyes that evoke such desperation within me,

mahogany brown and more profound than philosophy;

with each blink, I am transfixed, 

left guessing which emotion they will express next. 

Despite all this, these weathered hands will not stop wringing, 

from the grief, so heavy that it collapses my lungs.

From my head down to my toes, I am numb, 

arsenic is all I can taste on my tongue.

My throat is caked with regret, 

so sore but I cannot find the strength to hydrate it and get it wet.
The ringing in my ears won’t cease, as shrill as the eerie silence of an abandoned underground garage,

it pierces my ears with such violence I wish I was deaf. 

The tension between us is thicker than the fog in China, 

and it is just as polluted by our unvoiced suspicions. 

You entered my life with as much as intensity as a fighter jet 

that has just broken the sound barrier.

Yet my failure to eject you leaves me feeling inept.

Swept under the rug, like fur or dust, or ashes from your cigarettes.
Winded as though I’ve run a decathlon yet determined to take my next steps,
this haggard heart of mine goes round in circles, unsure of whether to turn right or left.

Clapback.

Faces may pass, you still pay them little mind when you’re on easy street,

walking down the avenues of a life that came so cheap,
no one contests your success, or questions it since you’re the one to beat,
just know that some roads lead to success while others to boulevards of broken dreams.

You treated me as unkindly as the homeless that you passed daily to your chagrin,
it was not just ignorance, but heartlessness inspired by their suffering,
your own stresses were the only ones that were worth your engagement,
no one else could reserve any spaces in your mind.

Every morning, you wake up and everything is perfect,
no debt, no worries, you are so much more than the layperson,
convinced you are untouchable and that you have the Midas touch,
living life like you are the centre of the universe is more than enough.

Unprepared for the rude awakening that waits for you in the shadows,
growing stronger every time it sees your ego in action,
the more you mistreat your fellow man, the more it wants to catch you off guard,
but it patiently waits for the best moment to tear you apart.

With little heart, but a home the size of Saturn,
you have no time for sob stories as you plan for your own future,
not easy to love but somehow your life is filled with suitors,
until they realize, like all the rest, that they were just in a stupor.

Clap your hands, applaud for the man that you’ve become,
twenty-six going on sixty, how’d you get so numb?
Your grave will be the only one that no one visits,
for you wasted your life treating everyone that loved you like shit.

Death of a Salesman.

Archaic scriptures like manuscript pages from ancient history,
claim my sanity possessing me in my entirety.
Have I blind faith that I follow without any question,
leaping before I looked into the madness that is like a loaded weapon? 

 
Concealed behind your web of lies I find only consternation,
cajoled as though a prize meant to console pageant queens that failed their nations. 
Prehistoric means conceived by patriarchal men,
capture me then set me free and entrap me once again.  

 
Go ahead, that is all that you're good at,
reap what you sow then sow what you get. 
Entranced, whirling like the dervishes seduced by Sufism, you are my religion,
perhaps I needed more time to prepare for the icy cold, your only provision.  

 
Like knives, the sharpness of your tongue gored me like a butcher with a vendetta,
each utterance like gunpowder as though your words were fired at me from a Beretta. 
Raise the roof, turn the house down like jezebel,
double double toil trouble me with your wicked spells.  

Even from beyond the grave, you still wreak havoc in my soul,
I lost my head when I found your guillotine romance that made me grow old.
You poisoned me with poetry as I read between the lines.
intoxicated me with your insolence that you turned into wine.

Close it off, you were close enough but it all falls apart, shut it down,
complacency became your own enemy and now you're six feet underground.
Let it fall apart, silence in our final moments, do not make a sound.
Emancipated, wiser now that I understand what it means to be lost and found.