Teardrops on the wind.
In the rain and the hazy smoke.
That blow aside the veil before
My eyes and bestow
Something not understood
As I threw caution to the winds,
But inadvertently,
Let it swoop down inside.
Like a raging storm
And conquer me.
The storm plummets towards my heart,
The thunder overpowers my sense,
I leave what is mine, behind the doors,
To melt into
The shadows and the perfume of this smoke.
The tempest lurches forward,
As I withdraw,
But in vain.
For before I could see Melancholy coming,
I was captive, yet again.
The cold hand
Wraps around my beating heart.
Subdued, paralysed, inconceivably
Powerful is the notion that tortures me.
Inside my mind the wet smoke drizzles.
And as the hand tightens its grip,
The colours fade from my mind.
The blade comes down the guillotine
Yet it stops.
But the doors have now closed.
Closed behind me as I pushed forward
To the very bane of my existence.
To the power that took me to my end.
But the blade has stopped.
I see it hovering above me.
The power was my own doing,
The power was my own vile sin,
The mirrors now reveal my monstrosities,
Through the venom seething under my skin.
I lay awake amidst the rest of the sleeping souls,
Awaiting the the edge of the knives.
I fly away in peaceful vanity that I have done no good,
One last look at the once open door,
lets down a tear of a sold memory,
Sold to the Devil, my closest one.
I leave the paths I had tread on,
In search of my painful peace.
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| Painting by Suad-Al-Attar |
