Trying
to squeeze out freedom like someone trying to force out the last bit of paste
from a spent toothpaste tube. The paste made of wonder, danger, deceit,
mischief, treachery, hope, love and hate.
To clean the unclean, spotted fangs of
slavish prisoner’s conscience. The ritual of cleaning efforted with a
fascinating evocation.
The pursuit of a mirage—a clean God; a
pure Goddess. And the intention of pilgrimage itself enough to give oneself a
clean chit.
A pilgrimage, taking intriguing path
between love and cruelty.
With showcased sweetness and hidden
pungency, the mankind tries to bridge the path between banquets and
battlefields. A dagger in one hand and dove in the other.
All this in pursuit of a faint interlude
of happiness; a brief blessing against the persistent curse; some secret sorrow
sucking frustration and pain into one’s being.
Some spans of undivided attention,
pointed focus and forceful direction in the vast sea of variegated shades of
frenzied follies.
The malignant mirage, in clandestine
complicity with chaos, cajoling with elaborate courtesy. Calling with its gaudy
flavor and colorful theatrics.
The happy runner in the sands dying as a
resentful, exhausted, embittered wreck in the desert. Flesh frozen with fear in
the breathlessly sweltering heat. Maggots would then cast clumsy coils of decay
and rot.
The scandalized sunbeams softly yielding
to darkness through the evening.
But the sky would still peer with mystic
subtlety.
A crudely satisfying day for the
destiny.
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