Iridium

I carry the mist and the seas in my eyes. Tempestuous thoughts in a cloudy canopy, Vaulting my mind. Wild west wind waging wars, Up the rocky cliff o'er the heath When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of red tulips Like slain soldiers, eschewed. The sea of faith had once pulsated My heart, with jocund and gallant tides. Now a dessert painted In spectre-grey, reminiscing The ancient pulse of germ and birth. Here's the last leaf my ink lingered on.

Cruel are those golden shards that cut through my curtains Opens an wound all too new, breaking a slumber all too a lure- It pierces my eyes and invades the gore corners of my abode. What does it witness, I wonder? The chipped embroidery my enamel carved, perhaps The ensemble of thoughts I decorate in my cubic nook- I gaze at the ones stacked in front, an armour to the gruesome, The trecherous intrepid memories dancing in a pagan trance, Invoking the amphibian cherub. Or perhaps the russet mural on concrete, a modern art- Maybe the entangled sheets Erebus and I made love Our carnal hunger overrode, tearing out our juglars and gut, Consumating Chaos- an apt betrothal. Mercy it is he's spondylitic, ignorant of the cold side of bed, Dyslexic or perhaps unschooled. The Nyxian celeste much wiser in the regard, a witness to the incongruity, Deciphered the phoneme- a blood curling voiceless velar fricative. I am a grapher, a photographer sometimes, a cartographer renowned. His golden fing...

It is in the wee hours that I think of you, How you welded the cracks of my heart. I love you, only, in these wee hours When my skin tingles with the reminder Of your- Fleeting caresses, Feather touches, and Familiar coos. These wee hours make me crave you To have you wholly- body and soul. I am pained, only, in these wee hours- A spade caving out my heart, Splinters puncturing my flesh, and Death wails bleeding my ears. And I am reminded why I must forget you.

They say I am good at speaking- a prolific orator, an intelligent debater, a skilled narrator. But why do I- fail to articulate emotions, as simple as a lamb? why must they coil up in a maze, so the phrases lose their way; Liberated from the labyrinth too late. Why do I, stumble, stutter, sigh; can’t communicate in fluent currents- like a river or pour heavy like rain? Why do I-

A demigod with a head of two- O ne sings hymns, the other screams- Two minds, two voices with an eye each- One that resides in me. Heteroglossia is a term, coined by the Russian philosopher and literary critic Mikhail Bhaktin, in the literary spectrum to denote the juxtaposition of more than one discourse. I feel it quite personally in my mind where there is the “heavens and the earth colliding”. I know not what this illness is but there are voices inside my head, precisely two, quite eloquent in their declamation over a particular situation that calls for sensitivity and sensibility. Both with disparate judgements, one impregnates my mind with such vile thoughts, suspicion and paranoia; while the other voice fights for its life trying to reason out with ME, pleading me to ignore the former. It creates such conundrum and chaos, my palms involuntarily pressed against my ears to mute the deafening voices; limbs shaking, eyes tearing and my ears searing. The negative always potent and I g...