Skip to main content

Destinations


This road ends here.
But as the destination beckons me,
I long to return.
To the long roads that smelled me,
That travelled a long way to listen to many stories,
To the pastoral lands that buried a thousand songs of herdsmen,
To the sumptuous forests
Of untold mysteries and hiding horrors,
And to the orchards of lovers.
As I long for the old paths,
The willow trees whisper
Helping the hairs to raid my ears.
Seeing the destination that awaits me,
I hardly seem to recognize it,
My heart resists to embrace it.
When the willows continue its whisper,
I long for the old motels,
Yearning for a way to it.
But the sky seems to jeopardize my plans,
Threatening with multiple invisible sounds.
The way ahead seems to be weary and unenthusiastic,
The sky whoops before the ultimate outbreak,
It screams giving me afterthoughts,
Suspicion creeps into the hemispheres of my mind,
Replacing the poor creator with reason.
I walk towards my unenthusiastic destination for a shelter,
Hoping to return.
As I run,
I see the lighted home,
Bright and unmoved
By the criticism of nature.
And then the willows shouted sharply,
"What is good for you is always ahead of you".

A.C

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Murmurings of Married Women

  I hear murmurings from the graveyard In the West of the town,  Of married women,  Dead and disappeared years ago.  I wonder what a time they had,  What a life they lived.  Their husbands weep and weep and forget them,  They praise how they looked after their women,  Covering in glittery gold,  Buying them silly silks,  Giving makeup for a make-over.  But still, the women murmur,  Their voices seem to break the edges of tombs.  They force the sun to dry out the flowers on them quickly.  I lowered my face and listened to the tombs,  It seems their lipstick was revolting,  Their eyelashes lifted to show the desperation.  They talk about the lies they had to live through,  In fear of strangers' pointing fingers on getting a hint on their unhappy marriages.  They call out their abusive partners,  Told me to look for the broken bangles behind the kitchen for proof,  The blood-stained clo...
Post a Comment
Read more

A Call for One More Summer Swim

  Dear Oliver,    Last summer was not only about freshly smelling grass and ripened peaches to me, it became something more than that because of you. Your arrival to help my father taught me lessons for a lifetime. It was you who gave meaning to my summer, to my days and its absurdities. When I first saw you, little did I realise that you are going to unravel the real Elio, an Elio who was so much in love. An Elio who was so confused at the choices of his love and who showed the courage to confront it no matter what. I remember when you whispered to me "Call me by your name and I'll call you by mine", the time when I felt as if the four lettered word Elio pouring out from your mouth is all I wanted to listen to in this entire universe. But sometimes life offers us a different path, away from what we actually want.  I still remember the fun we had at Bergamo, the way you kissed me secretly pressing against the walls, never did I experience that feeling ever again. Bec...
Post a Comment
Read more

Most Nights We are Alone

  Most nights we are alone,  Trying to form a shape,  Wrecking with the pain of a bleeding heart,  In desperation to flatten the lump formed in the throat,  Trying to keep it as calm as possible Not to wake our partners beside us.  Most nights we are alone,  Clenching onto pillows,  Playing loud music,  Pretending sleep,  While we writhe in pain.  Most nights we are alone,  Thinking of faces that promised company,  Faces of people we assumed would hug us,  Hands that we thought would caress us,  And talks that we registered would soothe us.  Most nights we are alone,  Peeling off our gender,  Searching for an identity,  Making sense of our essence,  Organizing our anger,  Revolting against the structure,  Living past the breaking point,  Storming a mysterious body.  Most nights we are alone,  Cursing the dreams we believed,  Blaming the instincts that spurred...
Post a Comment
Read more