Minus Zero

 

Minus Zero

Image by "Watchtower" on Spotify.


Never have I expected to feel this much,

What’s left to feel other than loss,

Ask the man what he has got left to loss,

When he reaches the ground of nothingness.

All the same, yet different reminders,

Wreaking havoc within the memory.

Alas, the man has no choice but to surrender,

With all due respect, he cannot overcome

The loss of a thousand years he had seen.

He had lost the paint of a brush,

An empty canvas, now nothing but dust.

The sun of a sunny day is now hidden,

Clouds of tremor surrounding the dusk.

She was a reshaper, made of rainbow.

He was a dull paper, made of silence.

She gifted him the beauty of the rainbow,

He was gifted by the joy of God.

Alas, the man has no choice but to surrender,

This loss is nothing but the feather of a phoenix,

A phoenix that is so dark, consumes him from within,

A phoenix that is so furious, burns him from within,

Turning the past into nothing but wrathful ashes,

Watchfully standing, the man cries.

As if the God has fallen from his throne,

The entire world and its disciple is now gone,

“Burn, burn!” yells the ashes, it all ends tomorrow,

Inviting the man to dance in the lake of sorrow.

Reincarnation fades away alongside those memories,

Yet the bloody knife that cut the man shakes all the way,

Phoenix, soaring the sky, catches him in the flame,

Alas, the man has no choice but to surrender,

An irresistible beauty, had he lost,

Spill the blood as you crack the skull,

Hear the beautiful sound of death’s harmony.

Spill the blood as you cut the veins,

End this whole pain as if it was nothing before.

Spill the blood as you rip off the eyes,

Be a blind man as if you already were.

Spill the blood as you cut each one of your finger,

As if you won’t touch a beauty as splendid as the phoenix.

Spill the blood as you cut your arms,

Thus, lose the harmony of hugging your past.

Spill the blood as you tear your feet apart,

Don’t you dare walk towards the sun.

Spill the blood as you cut your mouth,

Instead of bitching, kiss the south.

Spill the blood as you cut your heart,

Fill one last paper with your treacherous blood.

Spill the blood as you hold onto your knife,

Don’t you see, it is your quill, telling your life.

Ah, kiss the tip of quill, let it feed on your blood,

Feel the heat surrounding your lips just like the old times.

Now it’s all cold, just like the past,

Phoenix is in ashes, your past is in cold,

Burn your hands as if they had sinned,

Freeze your soul as if it had tainted by sins,

Had you attempted to escape this nightmare,

Reaper would eat your flesh, beware.

Ah, how delightful it is to write this,

As if nothing had happened and I cherish!

I call forth crows to die, feelings to vanish,

All I heard was “You should not perish”.

This whole time, rage of a mountain persisted,

It turned into agony, agony, and agony.

Standing in its glory, agony rises,

Pull out your sword and make me bleed.

There is no harmony in this,

Just like the life itself, the end came by the kiss.

Not to be confused by the harbinger of joy,

This one exists only to destroy.

Time is up, burn me my dear phoenix,

Longer and worse than you have ever done.

Throw me into the pit of Cerberus to rot,

I will not wonder, any longer.

15.01.2020

Here is a bit of a story since we are all humans and crave to tell a story that belongs to us, shapes us, and quite possibly adding something to us, if not deleting a piece from us. Many can find these verses quite troublesome, dreadful, or even disturbing due to the abundant usage of "poet destroys something" concept, often ending up gruesome. Then, I invite you to look around us and to prevent this explanation from becoming redundant, I ask you to consider a whole life span of experience that became a part of you and will also become a part of you. Life is a workbench and while there are many crafts to be made on it, it is true that workplace can eventually get messy and unkempt. Minus Zero is a product that represents the perfect imbalance of a craft that while appears to be delightful in terms of meaning, represents nothing but hideous procedures before it.

And thus, climax. Will the poet decide to maintain this grim trend or will he unfold a letter to spare the joy of reading? It should not be difficult to predict the answer.

 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

All Past Girls Now Sunny Meadows

Image
 All Past Girls Now Sunny Meadows Not much of a tale dare we speak of and also bitter the tongue that speaks of it now, a vile beast that looms. Long have I grown meadows that once sprinkled with ashes, that smell like love. Once banquet for eyes, now a husk. All the meadows that I grew, and dare I say, quite a few, ruptured a fragment of my soul leaving the shell of a man. All the girls that I loved smelled like sunny meadows. Reminiscent of that bloom fills the heart, and the heart that blooms. All the girls that I loved smelled like sunny meadows. Like a smell that shall never leave but alas, one you never preserve. All the girls that I loved smelled like sunny meadows. Stems made of passion to stem the blood that soaks the petals. All the girls that I loved once danced in my meadows. Often rainy, we, the wet peasant, devoured the gifted, the above. All the girls that I loved once laid their compassion to rest. Where the hollow meadow grasped soaked their souls with peace. All t...
Read more

The Sundial in the Garden

Image
 The Sundial in the Garden The Sundial in the Garden —after afternoons unwitnessed Beneath the cloisters' sighing shade, Where ivy grieves the stone, I stand where lovers softly laid Their secrets into bone. I, time’s obedient servant, stay— A brass throat kissed by sun— Yet no warm hand has turned my way, Nor touched the hours I run. Around me drift the springtime pairs, With hair like drifting flame; Their fingers write in midday airs What I could never name. A head upon a chest reclines, Their temples in duet; Their breath explores each other's spines— A pact the soul forgets. I mark each pulse. I hear the knee Brush softly against thigh. Their shadows curl around the tree As mine just points and dies. Their laughter, like a distant song, Spins circles in the air— Not unlike that endless wheel That winds the windmill’s stare. They trace the arches of the brow, The jawline's sacred bend. The lips are doors they enter now And I, outside, preten...
Read more

Imbued Verses

Image
By Henry Doubnez Imbued Verses Singing a song whose words I do not know, but reflections that are imbued to my soul losing to my mind's projections. The feeling is always the same, starting with a stimulation. A prospering combustion that strikes the heart, never fading. I stare at my verse, seeing your name, never stopping my flame. And they pray that we meet thy sight, une rose ornée d’épines. Don't want to live in a world where my verses wither, like a flag furled not to show, but to burn my spirit for an isolation, now split. Looking back now I realize all that is written, an epilogue. A plastic chapter dedicated and a world that was never real. Dressed like a mirror, hoping that you notice not to shatter but to prosper my heart's matter and see the beauty you bring. Surface is shattered, the shell is  gone and freeing what is within an empty tomb, yet une rose qui fleurit and what a scent, cleansing my tomb. If this is how a song ends, whisper it but only from you can ...
Read more