Purpose.

Turning into the shabby path.
Walking toward my destiny.
I’m willing myself to make the move.
To reach out and weave,
Waiting for a shower of sparkle,
All I get is a little sun,
The low glow too measly to matter.

Dried leaves crunch under my feet,
I’m walking forward pointlessly.
I’ve lost count of the steps,
Afraid of not being able to retrace.
They leave no trace, feet on fallen leaves
Just like no one notices the missing
If you crush over the already fallen.
Suddenly afraid that’s who im going to be,
Little peice of mind rejoicing,
For thats the push it needed to be.

Not looking where I’m going,
Erratic , suddenly pushing faster.
Got to get out of the mould.
Unknowingly out of the chosen track
Feet sinks in, just some compost and mud.

Another obstacle, the thrill now gone.
I just want to sit down and enjoy the sun.
Voice in my head tells me they got to me.
Got what they wanted, to make me a nobody.

I don’t move, mind is in a loop.
Nobody doesn’t cut anymore,
I’ll need me a new muse.

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Daily Prompt: Encrusted

via Daily Prompt: Encrusted

They had him shackled in chains,
His freedom in tatters.
Four walls of the cell his only space.
With marks of the belt, they tried to break his shell.
With the hot irons, they tried to melt it up.
Tried to get in straight, with blackmail.
He knew what they wanted,
They wanted what he knew.

Oh but they had trained him
hard and right.
Skin as thick as leather,
Heart as hard as stone.
Encrusted. Impenetrable.

Corrupted

Looking up, I saw the rainbow in the crowd
Like a breath of fresh air, like the ray of hope
It was an aberrant occurring, almost unbelievable.
Don’t trust the happiness, they said.
Because it was just a empty bubble of hope,
Bursting to reveal the same old harsh world.

Different took a new meaning, a belief.
I knew it was a con, yet the urge to believe was strong.
To revel in the short-lived glow of acceptance, Before being crushed by the aberrant rainbow
That was being malleated into the stereotype.

They’d been a revelation,
Never trying to mould,
Never sneering , never judging
Accepting, even liking the creature for what it was.
It didn’t matter that I was an alien
From a planet far away,
Or that I was as different as could be.

Then fate got to them, sticking her ugly head in.
Reached them the whispered, ugly, hissed words.
And twisted them around in their heads,
Slowly unravelling all the good.

Black ink dropped, leaked in slowly
Blotting into every nook and cell.
Slowly turning dark, the light snuffed out.
The rainbow fading as the colours evened out.
Into the same black nothingness
That covered everything else.

Warm.

I’d been sauntering along the path
Of my everyday, moving along.
Taking life a leap at a time,
Eyes agape, taking in the world,
Certainly not looking for a romance.

Met your eyes behind the mask,
Warmth aglow. A good feeling.
What, I didn’t know.

I’d felt all this before,
Encompassed, entranced.
Attraction, and perfection.
But warmth? I didn’t know
What to make of you.

I knew you were what was
Good for me, just like I knew
You were too good to be true.

All things Green.

Everyday had been a new fight.
The ugliness despicable,
Outwardly sugary sweet,
A sure trap for the gullible.
Never satisfied, never enough.
Full, yet they needed to steal
All of the others sustainance.
Backs patted, love shown,
Sneers behind backs, cords cut loose.
Claws out, the competition was deadly.
Sneakiness ruled, wads changed hands
Politics played, ugly diplomacy ruled.
Compassion drowned, friendships forgotten.
Only tooth and claw and gore.
And all things green, ruled all around.

One evening.

 

He was sitting at the balcony that night. Lanky legs that seemed too long for his body fitting through the bars of the balcony pillars and hanging out, swinging merrily. The dull evening air , limp and heavy with the stench of a whole days breaths of an overcrowding of humans didn’t seem to bother him. Young free mind only registered the echo of excited voices, various aromas and array of colours that covered the street below him.

For him it was the usual evening. The vendor selling the savoury pani puri had set his shop already. He was readying his fare and serving a few early birds all at once. His young apprentice, a boy almost of the same age as him, sat smashing and mixing the potato filling and chopping onions. He wondered whether the boy got to eat the snack every day, all day. It was his favourite thing, and his mother hardly allowed him to eat it once a month. He was envious, and kept looking ardently.

To his young mind, nothing seemed different. And the quite warmth pulled him to sleep.

Yet there stifling feeling to that evening’s air. It was a feeling off the roads below. Somehow the bustle of activity was strained, not as happening, not as natural.
The man selling the balloons was absent today. The man with the clips and clutches wasn’t shouting his wares. There were strange men on the roads that day. Men who kept looking here and there, never in one place. Unusual in itself.
As the evening progressed, the roads seemed to empty instead of fill. Air filled with tension, fear on everyone’s minds. The air slowly becoming cooler, but the evening heavier.

Later, he described having opened his eyes suddenly, and sitting up straight. No, he hadn’t been startled awake. Just like his sleep had broken and didn’t come back. He’d sleepily rubbed his eyes and looked across through a yawn. Blinking awake, he wondered where the Sharma’s that lived opposite were that night, as their house wasn’t lit up as it was always by this time.

It wasn’t until 10 mins later that he saw them. Men in orange (saffron, but what did the little boy know) headbands, sinister looking and fishy, milled around. Seemed like they’d come out of nowhere. Calls were being made, the streets slowly emptied more.

The roar of their oncoming voices reached him earlier than the sight of them. It was the loud shouting, almost screaming of a huge number of people. They came in soon after, torches burning bright. Something told him to stay out of sight. So he pulled in his legs and peeped from behind the balcony railings. They had vicious looking long curved knives, and were filled with so much hate, shouting slogans, blood in their eyes.

Lost in the melee, he hadn’t heard his mother screaming for him, wanting to huddle up to safety.

Later, he’d be at once grateful, and at the same time in tears that he hadn’t heard and gone in.

He never saw them enter the building opposite to him, he saw them burn his neighbour’s house down, he saw them behead his friend’s father. All he did was sit in shock, cowering in a corner, making sure he didn’t scream because that would get them here, to his house, to where his mother and father and baby sister were.

It was his mother’s scream that jolted him out of his shock. He’d peeped through the balcony window inside the room .

She was looking at him, calling out to him. They were throwing her around like a doll, climbing on her, tearing her apart literally. And all he did was stare. No scream, no sound at all. He didn’t go to her help. Just stayed safe. Finally her screams stopped.

They left. An hour. He didn’t move. Some returned.

He knew the men this time. It was that friendly pandit from the temple down the road. They were counting bodies, looking for his. The pundit knew he was missing, called out for him, searched the whole house. On one moment, dulled by a false sense of security, he almost called out to him. Yet, he knew, by some guardian instinct , he wasn’t a friend.

For years later, he dreaded nights. They always came to him in his dreams. His mother, calling, begging for him to come save her. His little sister, wailing till they smashed her head with the butt of their gun. He knew there was nothing he could have done, yet that guilt of having survived when they didn’t was as great as they guilt of feeling relieved at having survived. He had lost everything that night.

They said they hadn’t seen a more determined young man. His version of the events had been clear, unwavering. His memory of the event almost photogenic, his willpower never failing. He picked out the faces with clear confidence, gave his statements with utmost surety. He was a journalist’s dream. The police had been of a mind to give the case a miss. But this young boy, so sure of everything he saw, was obviously a liability. Even the powers that be couldn’t erase it all. He was a sensation now, all over the media. In the age of the internet, his video viral, watched and downloaded by thousands, support pouring in from everywhere.

They called him a hero. All he felt was a failure.