Life is one big lament – Mia Pharaoh
When I was younger, my father raised his arms like Moses determining the inner and outer war between putting food on the table and emotionally exhausting me.
When his left hand came down, he’d use a right hook, and when his right grew weary, he’d use a left hook. When both did, he’d focus on the meal in front of us.
His features lupine, his sneer sinister, his devilish eyes eying me like a demon of a coarse wood like the voice of an aged singer past her prime, croaking the syllables, desperately trying to coax the deceiving crowd.
Now, old and abstinent from the boiling red liquor of rage, he sits in his chair and apologizes as thoughts and thoughts of mistakes after mistakes stumble and then tumble down a stairwell of consciousness causing turbulence, a head throb.
When I was younger, my mother played the classical piano to escape just like I fell into an abstract plethora of dreams, caught in the neon, ever drifting as a Sonata caressed my ears.
Her features melancholic, her browbeaten mind jaded, gesturing to determinism to overthrow tyrannical free will like a beggar in rags, expressionless with his palm stretched out, not expecting the careful charlatan to toss him a dime.
Now, old and robbed of life, greying, she draws blue fractals, finally exposing a suppressed depth unnoticed and sliding into still oblivion, her past racing towards her, the future a blur and she, standing still by a sign that still says, Faith even if nothing comes of it, although it’s corroding and losing its charm.
Now that I’m older and the veil of innocence split after the crucifixion of my integrity, I’m (de)resurrected in this industrial shanty town, smoking my cigarette, sitting on the sidewalk with a cup of coffee, writing everything antithetical to a Davidian Psalm.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)