Deep Recess
What you can never say, can still be said. What is understood, well . . .Archive for February, 2008
Of Things
Of retired Gods; reluctant Gods
Of being pulled out of retirement
Of seeing the smoggy cityscape from a clear village sky
Of believing: in yourself and others’ belief in you
Of empty celebrations
Of tentativeness
Of being true, to yourself and others
Of new heavens
Of wishful abodes
Of getting there, or not
Of feet heavy as lead
Of hearts heavy with baggage
Of undoing yourself; being yourself
But mostly
Of Clay Gods, made every year, immersed ten days later, forgotten for 355 days.
The Insides
It has been a while. A long ignorant while. It is tightly shut, perhaps the rust has fused the buckle. Coupled it for eternity. It is dead silent like a moonless night in a forest without a breeze. Life, devoid of its existence; convincingly impersonating death. Native knowledge whispers of life, lingering, with the possibility of a possible life. There is a metallic smell on the fingers. A fingernail cracked while opening the lid. It hurt. A faint taste of the pain inside. Chronic. Sharp. Long endured. Brown specks dot where the dead tissue separated and fell. Try the other side. The hinge. Break, what kept it together all this while.
It has been a while.
It is now open.
There is perspiration. One bead splatters on the rust and makes it dark. Browner than the earth. Inside, is all that was refused and denied all these years. Shock and surprise paint the face in colours that refuse to reflect. An utter stranger, who was once very well-known
I have new clothes.
