The Slaying of Grief

What clay are you cast from, brittle grief?
Foul offspring of dark deeds, thou – begone!
Spawn of mere mortality and festering guilt…
You… Never young, ever old – mock me?

I am eternity itself, know. I dream and die.
I lay to rest yesterdays and moments every moment.
I am summoned and visit with honour, given respect…
And thee? Ever a leper thief – skulking uninvited.

Come, draw your blunted edges and dance with me
Match edge, wits and glances with me, the mere mortal:
I am the circle itself, born of breath denied.
You think I fear thee? Nay. Behold me in all my selves.

I am the wind that screams through the forest,
I am the leaf that spirals down in a curling fall
I am the rain that quenches the dry sands of strife
I am the burning dunes that mortals strive to cross.

I am the mortal thunder that awakens cruel gods in heaven
I am the thousand voices of the dark night tapping divine windows
I am the uttered curse of a poet believed dead, but now awake
I am the giant Wind’s every self meshed, come to life.

Bow! Kneel! Grovel! At my calloused feet, foul offspring of truth!
Bring, too, thine ill-bred mother-festering fate! And bid her plead…
For mercy, surcease, for life itself! Know, learn, and then, remember:
That I, slay and sire… sculpt thee into shape: Hung there, see? Bleed.

Swapan Dholakia is a Communications veteran, a seeker who gets his highs through expression and exploring.

Featured Image:  Anthony DELANOIX / Unsplash