Let them rot till their kin remembers
If at all blood is pure, what you do is absorbingly demure, your heart has smoke chambers, lungs gorged with dust
Forbidden love
Parlances, horizons, and boundaries were drawn between you and me, to keep us from eloping in farther spaces.
Races, caste, and creed, endemic denominator, doesn’t change the outcome of traces,
it's bound to be fixed, forever in unending tricks you try playing.
Moving to and fro, even within the dysfunctional core, the tree's roots have gripped the city.
Roots jarring when uprooted rip and grip your heart, squeezed and grease it with oil and mortar, till it all turns into ash, blackening veins, and arteries.
if it's a rose, it looks like a mulched concoction of petals, to paint your showroom with bits of potpourri everywhere. While realism is an astute conundrum.
The roses were grown in feasts of nitrogen, compounds decomposing and forming from human anatomy, of all the roses are formed from dead bleeding bodies.
The vigor of the man shone as the rose plant grew and came out of his sharp chiseled mouth.
Yet his intestines and the roof of his head were exposed from the shrub growing inside.
There are too many restraints on living and breathing bodies, and too big a fate and faith perception being played out.
But the lines as weaved, are not meant to be violated, it would lead to forming of boundaries, sequenced with the drying of skulls and skeletons.
The granaries have dried in a dump as the rice couldn’t keep up from the hog and tremor caused by drought.
too sensitive states, the Man in charge; as bodies lay undying yet dying at the same time.
For families crave and like burning them alight.
If at all the specter of social norms had to be moved.
Prude and brood, as the silent watchers are choosing murder as a safety net by indulging in it.
Murdering love
For we indulged and had to face the consequences of timeless dual conflicting existences, the death and dying did not swap places with the living.
Souls cry and yell when they die, in the same confluence of rivers that fetched itself in canals to be held by the weight of salt cities.
In salt mines, the bodies are meant to be torn and skinned alive, as they say, “Let them rot till their kin remembers.”
The moment of persisting rupture soaks being into blood and bone, tender and rot as if the sins were already committed.
Tastes and pleasures already emanated, the blot and the skidmark have already started spoiling the beauty of the ethos, and culture by committing sin, infusing impurity in forever perpetuity,
Yet the shadows are not meant to be seen, for the trial evergreen has to take place in sinking boats.
For all that’s stunning and burning pyres never met a similar fate to us after death.
For we are the futile germination of foxes and dogs.
Vile and filthy, dark and dusty, carrying melanin with pride, yet assuaged about goodwill.
Peril, Sterile hands were soaked in blood first and the two men came and carved our heads, for both are the prey to a roomful of puritanical predators.
As the black cloth is draped with a knot tied in between,
To watch our hands, and heads being shaken as a dead rabbit electrocuted constantly,
utterly moving and jerking kill its body lays flat.
When death arrives there is utter silence, there is no persistence and willingness to agitate.
You eradicate and replicate the void feelings amidst the desk bench holding you still,
In a moment's time, my lower legs could feel the bench sliding, and I could feel the lover’s eyes, going, missing, and rising,
It fluttered like a crazy winging bird, flapping it harder to not face what you willingly face’
The time has arrived the lover's bodies moved like headless cattle when executed for the flesh,
Cows skinned alive, or male chicken babies turned into a paste the moment they were born.
And it hanged and hanged till all the nature feasted on him,
As filthy, the foul smell still emanates, and my crying won’t stop until then.
For I was weak and enforced in circles, and couldn’t save him, neither had the guts to elope.
It all became too hazy and cataclysmic, maybe the pain of that time where the body shaking and rupturing locked my memory in interloop.
Like a loop command, discarding the flow, a repeating incident, for the price I had to pay is to be a living dead,
Just like the too-small girls naked in their twisted heathen bodies,
who were hanged in the same village because of this meaningless oppression.
(Cosmic Context is a section where I explain my poem a bit more)
This poetic piece is a reflection on forbidden love or love that is done above your stature and status. In many nations today, people look down upon other people who are either poor or are from a different minority, ethnicity, and nativist background, leading them to consider others inferior. Here the focus is on the caste system in India, where young individuals are forced to marry in the same caste setup, no matter if they like a person or not. Violating that imaginary line is often a death trap in some parts of India especially when the ranks are so vivid and radical, and the distance of caste levels spans further.
Thanks a lot for taking some precious time out of your schedule to read my work. If you like it, you can read some of the other poems I have linked below. I hope you have a great day! Thanks for stopping by!!!