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The Bloodied Epic

Breezy was the fine dusk whereupon
Golden heat abated and silvery chills aroused
When shadowed greens, near or far,
In drowsy opulent fragrance drooped
And in ethereal purple veiled.
Drops of tears in concession with sorrow
Are disgraces to the beatific pastoral.
My soul, however, was disposed to turmoil,
Though was not stone impervious of nature’s bliss.
Eyes down cast, an absurdity of expression twisted
As a result of attempts on smiling.
But ‘tis better to be merry than merry feigning,
I cut my flesh open for demented peace.
Emerged at first the beige bloodless mark,
As if confounded, spell bounded in remorse.
Then the white flesh pained herself to weep;
Bright-red oozing tears ensued.
While the filmy gap with blood red thickened,
I drew my blade, again, another; there;
Sense of hurt was of equal acuteness, yet
Drops of tears appeared dreamier than ever---
Ruby liquid huddled itself, forming dews,
Beady and shiny and most surreal,
As if in every morning they hang dozing
Onto the dense foliage of olive groves.
Now, isn’t oblique sunray of the dying dusk
Proved to be the godliest of all celestials?
Casting cheerful hue of victories upon the jewels;
Throwing drunkenness upon my impaled cheeks.

The lovely blood, pomegranate like, soon congealed,
Darkened, cracked and lifelessly hardened,
Covering white flesh, cadaverous and appalled
By the filthy, wretched, deplorable, shriveled remains
Of dead cells, the wounds agape, clad in spiteful armor
Of blackish red. Alas, for how many times have I bore witness
To Hamlet’s vengeful madness, or Lear being precipitated into
The cruelty of old age, still these tragedies,
Shall consent to my sorrow the most dreadful of horrors,
For no parricide, incest, sacrilege or plague
Have come marauding through the gate of household;
Nor were execration, curse or bitter disdain
Issued forth from eyes of the world,
Has mother earth the most perverse set of facial muscle
That will not convey the language of her mercy.
Nay; I grapple, whole days on end, with walking shadows,
Here and there, inside and out, the apparitions seem ubiquitous.
Furies no less potent than Orestes’s venomous pursuers
Continuously darting forth for sinful blood and flesh
Gnawing soft heart away from inside;
Love is first to wither away, and to sorrow
Kindness and Youth next fall prey.
Aged and inhuman, empty and hollow; however,
Ravenous hate searches for last of loveliness
To glut on, ever insatiably, till gushing blood shall at last
See the end of her days. T’is consummation,
As night draws nigh; for another life
Of sweet youth, never more!

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