HER

Stolid stones and mundane conversations

have enclosed a finality of time.

She has escaped. From my ego,

through two-faced streets, into

another layer of the universe.

I am split like a bisected earthworm,

into two insignificant selves,

at the wake of a private apocalypse.

I have tamed into normalcy,

like a man with combed hair,

I have no doors open, and

none closed either.

I have no doors at all to see through,

on this hopelessly dull night.

I am the primary agony of my room.

I am annoying like a spelling mistake.

I am a pun on modernity, and a

euphemism for abject pity.

She has faded. Into a distance,

far from my pitiable self, floating

on amicable waters.

I walk like an old man,

looking at stolid stones that

play Gods to weeping worshipers.

I weep too, don't I? I cry dry.

I am caught up,

between several stones and many Gods,

unable to detach myself from any.

Because I weep. Yes, I do cry.

My wired wishes,

have her kidnapped.

I have arcane dreams of her.

They are wild and vivid.

And they have her kidnapped.

But there is no ransom.

She has escaped.

There is no ransom.

She has faded.

There is no ransom.

There is no her.

And I am done. Fuck!

Am I?

Also published in the October 2011 edition of Kritya - available here.