Written by Always looking for grandiosity, although to be fair enough cutting down on it! Still learning and still aspiring; still grappling with the myriad devices of literature. I started to actively pursue writing from the age of 15 onwards; while an interest in poetry itself would not arrive till the age of 17. From then on, Milton and Eliot would run rings of inspiration around me. I write well with music; for some reason the dynamics of music help me better express myself. To be fair, I do not quite tread the same path as most; that is I do not write frequently enough to be labeled a writer. Perhaps though, that is not upto me! My writings tend to sometimes take on a far more overbearing burden, they tend to be not about the blasé intimacies of every life and relationships, but instead about the grander scale of things. In my defense, I have tried to correct that, but I suppose a distinct lack of empathy on my part may provide considerable hindrance. Ultimately though, I write in prose and poetry what I cannot say aloud. Isn’t that just all of us? Read more by this writer |
Songs for Rheai watched the ancient evening sky pan out, set against the glistening minarets with songs ringing out clear in the rancorous background. i lost myself in the city and its divinity, in the narrow streets with trees singed by the sun, and rain pounding the ground as mud crept into a thousand crevices. yet out of the thundering sky i hear you cry, “come full circle! we’ll devour the lamb and we will dine! We will dance and sing with angels and scepters tonight!” my words are no longer yours to keep, and I shall weave patterns of my own volition. no longer in cotton threads of dusk shall I lie, no longer in blackened sheets of age shall you decry that, which paints itself on holy nights and I stumble; the putrid stench of your degeneration shall attach itself to windowsills, which clumsy birds shall occupy in false vanity but i shall find it! be it in the ghastly night or the wispy fog of dawn. i shall embrace myself, within these baked streets of a world tethered to the sanguine demise of my own existence. and come morning I shall perish, in magnified silence brought about by the lonely lives of a thousand few. |
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