In a wild, wild country
ruled by stars
Today, he sits by the fireplace, drenched with rain and art.
And writes about silence
As the ink glides through the paper
His heart beats like an asthmatic racer
Pushing down the breath he reaps,
Every word in his silence, however bleeds
Once a meliorist, today a cynical being
Silent, he is
In the memory of the boy he had been
Back into the time he goes,
When the bohemian rhapsody played too deep, he remembers the day
His mama's letters of languish ached in extreme
With no answer to come, did he survive?
Or he died the day, he could not meet her on her demise?
What unfolds next was tears and blood
When his lover was bathed into the pig's blood
Now a corpse, back then a rose
She spoke through silence which now he wrote as
"The fate of the lovers they say,
Left into the hands of the world to slay."
Reside far away, his brothers, he cannot meet
Sleep deprived eyes, they still, flash the tree house they used to greet
With laughters which still echo in the silence of abandonment.
Haunting a relishing memory
Now bequeathed,
To an anonymous who might incaptivate innocence beneath.
And what about the lost slippers which the strays ran and chewed?
They, Lie
unsearched in the mystery of the theft:
a search long subdued
But there still rests beside him his father’s hat which he once wore
while sitting silent in front of his mother's pot pie,
A melodious evening which turned sore
At the the sight of his father's new ‘whore ‘
Had he seen the silence that his mother's bruised lips held?
All that bleeds in his writing is something she had always been fed.
Absurdity that his father was absolved of,
“How not to be his son”, is all that he thought of.
With all the pain around and haphazard,
he grew into the country ruled by stars :
Stars that never allowed him to decide his fate.
Stars that soaked the blood of hate
Or was it all inside?
Since the night of the silent Christmas,
held with shaky hands, when the trigger was pulled in his defense
Or was it planned of rage deep inside that he embraced!
The murder of his father which still lies engraved
“ Who did it?”his family would never tell.
All that the town knew was,
“The monster died
Who put the boy through hell”
And since then every night it rains the same.
Hell soaked stars they fly through his brain.
The boy, now a full grown man, without a heart
Howls at the sound of trigger and sleeps in dungeons of art.
Art through which, he inks down the silence that he had long held.
All that the boy in him, was never brave enough to tell.