The Curse of Lovers

As the church bell tolls,

The pigeons flew away from the parapet.

The shiny old white threads left on the

Red aisle runner

Struggle to break up from its clutches.

The wind becomes the professional bench drummer of hallelujahs,

And the pages of the Bible search for a reader.

As I entered, the guilty cobwebs hide

Their faces behind the Chandelier,

reflecting its complex housing.

A curse has consumed this place,

The curse of lovers who were left at the altar.

The church stopped functioning,

someday,

Because the people stopped coming someday.

And the choir stopped singing,

The weddings stopped

And nobody was left at the altar.

They say it is the curse,

The curse of seven lovers who were left at the altar,

Over the seven years.

The lovers who left the town in shame

Never came back.

But people shared stories of cruel brides and cruel grooms,

Who left their lovers at the altar.

They sewed and stitched stories,

They made tea and poured stories,

They read and shared stories.

Stories traveled and consumed everyone,

They claimed to see apparitions,

ghosts, witches, bloodied bodies and

Gruesomely scattered hairs.

More and more left the town,

Fearing the curse,

Collecting their money,

Leaving their properties.

And here I stand in the cursed town,

My visit made no difference,

No soul came back,

Only the silence of the abandoned town accompanied me.

I stood at the lonely aisle,

smelling the dusty air,

Lamenting over the masterpieces.

And I wondered about the curses,

Not of the lovers,

But these buildings and structures

That was left alone in the town,

The curse that made them

Forever abandoned places,

Trapped in the body of a cursed town.

A. C

Comments

THE SILENT CRY

Darkness ...at its zenith Silence.. at the sound 's lowest decibel.. I wrapped myself up into the blanket tears rolled down my cheeks.. I cried.. I cried in the dark silence silently.. No voice of my cry.. I bite my hands.. I cried silent loudly.. I cried for the dreams unfulfilled I cried thinking of my unpredicted future.. I cried thinking of my unknown death.. I cried thinking of my inabilities I cried thinking of the gifts not given to me I cried thinking of my people.. And I complained God Almighty for the miseries given to me.. ... I wiped off my tears.. I smiled. Perfect... Nothing is better than this silent loud cry..!! A.C

Kaathal - The Core Breaker of 2023

Kaathal - The Core is one of the movies of 2023 that left an ache in my heart. It's the kind of movie where you just sit and stare at the wall for hours after you finish it. I keep thinking about the pain of Mathew, Omana, Thankan and Chachan and it is something that continues to haunt me. Mathew’s pain is something that has become part of him by living the prime of his life pretending to be an integral part of a heteronormative society. His calm and meek personality is like a dormant volcano that is likely to erupt anytime. When he confronts his pain with Chachan and Omana, we see him peeling off his outer layer of crust and showing us his core. The core, that has carried deep wounds of fear and shame of coming out and confronting his fears, all this while. I don’t think I have seen a more compassionate and kind woman as Omana in recent movies. Despite being in a marriage that doesn’t fulfill her needs, she stays in it for years for the sake of Mathew. And when the right ...

Little Poem

My procrastination ends here, While the urge to write chokes my throat, My hands get paralysed as in a trance, I find excuses to write a little poem, I make up a lonely man, a distressed woman, a lovers’ quarrel, an unrequited love, But they are reluctant to play the part, Maybe i should give them a raise, Or throw a party at midnight, Maybe a few drinks might work, Only if they don’t puke. I can expect a little vandalism, Some damage to the property and a mini scandal, Possibly out of rage. But at the end when I bring my weapons, Sometimes they get scared and back off, Some may never come back, Others find it funny and mock at me, And opportunists, seeing my desperation, Attacks me with manipulation. And all these while, my three panic attacks talk to me in a different language, I try to write a little poem With a racing heart and flowing eyes, I write my little poem, tortured and broken, I end my little poem, Like a mighty warrior, Who had a pyrrhic victory.

THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

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