Define

Death is a poem written by the

strange tides of inevitability and

dragged to shores of randomness

in a bid to swallow life. Life is the

auto-tuned song of profoundness,

shrunken and shriveled into a

gazillion nerves, synaptic raptures,

captured by the mediocrity of

being human. Humanity tends to

glide over the obvious ignominy

of ignorance, huddled in a race along

the non-orientable surface that is

pitifully infinite. Infinity strikes the

tepid gong of silence, ushering a

solemn vow of the beyond, craving

nothing but an end to the insanity of

love. And love is...

We are.

Where do you come from, sister?

I come from the fields, tilling fallow
land; smell of green and brown. I come
from the factories of doom, clad in winds
of smoke and gloom. From homes never
mine, spilling my marrow for the thanks
ever elusive.

I come from yonder, where spilled the
blood of my kin, my daughters raped; men
quartered. Come from whence my dark skin;
shimmered in the evening sweat to gazes
unwanted. From where the swell of my breasts,
mound of my Venus, the arch of my back
surrendered to touches uninvited.

Where do you go to, sister?

To a better tomorrow. Something always
was promised. Sunshine in a million
kaleidoscopes, splintered across snowflakes
of happiness. To what is owed. What we
deserve! Some sisters are there, calling on
to us.

Why do you cry, dear sister?

Their faces... painted away. Lips sealed;
breasts quelled, the twirl of powerful hips
bound in thousand meshes of conformity.
That is not freedom. Freedom is not packed in
Gucci, Prada; not sold in streets of morality.
We are not them. They will not see us. Not see
us crying. Not through veiled blindness.

Why do you sigh, sister?

A clarion call. March on, sistren.
March with. Not slaves of circumstance;
neither martyrs of the day; nor the pangs of
virtuous angst. We are- the unwritten truth,
empresses of our own. We do not bow, do
not halt. We battle a million armies. The
heave of our breasts; rise of our areolas
and the strength of our thighs as sweat pours
unabashedly between our legs, wrapped around
your senses, as we march. That is us.
We are.

Marooned

No man- they say- is an island- moored

pitifully on these reckless shores. And yet,

my loneliness- glowering over- showering

thunders of longing- a pulsing star of dust

and pain.

Save me. Save me. Save me from this triumph

of emptiness- lured by the drunken leisure of

trapped nerves- coffin of numbness tests the

strength of claws-shrieking the vomit, so

painfully withheld.

Marooned. Shipwrecked and marooned. Sifting

through timeless sands- grate and cringe at

the electric friction- bivouac of effervescence,

cradled as life becomes the auteur- skillful

manipulations.