With erratic rocks paving the way,
I walk alone in a
Cacophony of old trees and older rivers.
Fallen leaves turn to ashes at my feet,
Summer winds as strong as winter blows,
Carry me to places I fail to recall.
Places, where every sight a relative,
Every inhabitant a friend,
Every road knows my name,
Every passer-by a foe ...
Every sign of life,
The ones I had intended to strangle.
Now, my hands reach for my own throat.
My fingerprints are jewels I wear on my skin.
Cuts and bruises are futile devices,
wounds heal fast and scar,
Can’t find a place unmarked.
I’m tainted in my own carcass
living all the lives I forged in my mind,
Yet, always end up dying in mere seconds of reborn.
Will this city of ruins remember my voice?
Will it hear the shouts I plan to let out tomorrow?
There’s smoke in the shadows
on the crevices of the cashmere shroud,
I now wear to hide my crippled bones.
Will the skies beg to set fire on it?
Or,
Am I to fall into chains of glass,
designed to bind me to the wax statues,
On the faux museum?
Where every artefact,
A caricature of failed nostalgia.
Where, letters are carved on wooden planks,
And symbols on copper wires, and
Blood on no one's hands but my own.
Where, a history without violence and pages without terror,
fills every nook and corner.
Where white is as worthy as black
And, feathers as beautiful as flowers.
Could I rest here and be broken
Or would I rather be devoured?
Zareef Daian is an aspiring creative writer. He is currently a student at Rajuk Uttara Model College.
