The tears will never flow again

This is an image of a bleak landscape. I chose it because it augments the tone of despondency in my poem which talks about failure and loss.

A Daughter song plays, making you nostalgic; teary-eyed
While you’re in your unhealthy room; the air so rancid and stale
Your friends have Masters; steady jobs with salaries and perks
They’ve cut through brambles of problems using scythes of constancy
You’ve wallowed in your doldrums; nailed to ashen, windswept walls
The whispers in your head are now echoes: grating, jarring, upsetting,
‘You’re a train wreck! An anathema so noxious! Fuck!’
Your little world that’s so deluded is crumbling and you don’t
Like watching as your placid waters roar and your skies turn red,
As your tranquil wood nymphs look with bestial stares and hate,
As trumpets blare and chariots of rage maraud the land,
As tigers of reality eat sheep of daft naïvety.
Your friends have found the lushest meadows after test and plague,
But darkness swallows you fully; tears at flesh and bone; sucks blood.
You’ll watch as dreams of you becoming an artist with books and poems
Also meets dust, and reduced to ashes you’ll try weeping,
But the tears won’t flow; the tears, they’ll never flow again

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2019)

All my father’s songs

The songs my father sang infused me with –
the deepest pain and I lay broken, not –
perceiving its height, length, scope, range or width –
the shrill shrieks echoing those battles fought –

The songs my father sang diffused me and –
I tried, on my knees, praying, Please! Help me!
But waves of silence washed away that sand –
of hope I fancied were rocks braving sea –

The songs my father sang refused me though –
I wanted to love them, make them my own –
and then, away to lands unknown, I’d row –
with broken boats and a deep dirge, a mourn –

I listen to songs my father didn’t sing now –
but in me, the pain questions, Why? Where? How?

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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