Sunset is my favourite colour

Baranti Dam, 2014
Teach me, the art of incoherence. Nature is but incoherent, yet weaved together to form a fine picturesque carpet.
Have you ever watched the patchwork of farming fields from a height? You must have. You are much well-traveled than I and that is only one of the things I envy about you.
Another would verily be the courage to weave incoherently. What takes courage is not the weaving but losing control; allowing meaning and abstract to take their own space, to make their own space.
A thousand white birds took flight with the dance of the piano keys. A setting sun colored my horizon golden. I shiver with the meaninglessness of such poetry, yet they occur.
The most beautiful sunset I have witnessed, carried in its womb the rage of a storm. On the same evening, I had seen a burning pyre against the sky where darkness slowly assembled to pour itself on to the bosom of the river.
I am slowly learning to savor my lust for death. It must be okay if I don’t feel like living for all the days of my life. Yet, in each of them, I wake up, eat, dream, pray, work and smile. There are other people who do so too. There must be.
I don’t envy them. I only feel, there must be, somewhere, a carpet very soft for people like us. 
And, probably, a door, open, forever.

Traversing the Skin of an Apology

Artwork : Heather Mclean
The poison that runs in our veins seldom gets covered up by poetry. It seeps out in moments of unconsciousness and takes charge. We long to spread love instead of gift others our brokenness. We break ties with the ones who we want to nourish the connection with but we don’t know how to.
You talk about prosthetic hearts, I don’t know what that means. I am only slowly getting aware of the toxins which might take lifetimes to clean. I am willing to take up that work though.
When the house is full of filth, I can only dream of a pretty garden, but the only work is to sweep, sweep and sweep. It is a daily job, this cleaning.
I try to decorate with carpets and rugs, pack all the clutter within boxes, hide them away in cupboards, but nothing works.
It is not supposed to.
I turn towards the mistakes and take responsibility but even within that action resides the lust for power, the wish to be in control, to dominate, manipulate and to take charge.
A wise soul said the stream was pure and clean, it will eventually be so, in time. I wish, till then, I can keep finding my refuge in poetry but I cannot unsee what I have seen.
I cannot romanticize brokenness anymore
They say within the poison, lies the medicine. But is the medicine potent enough to bring healing to the hearts that I have hurt? I stomped mindlessly and trampled over soft grass. Taking blame as my armor, I have blindly barged in.
Yes, war can be holy but whose side I am choosing? Toxins or healing? With streams of poison in my veins, how do I get to the medicine?