Tuesday, October 03, 2006

SOUL CAGES

Seven blackbirds buzz overhead. Angry waves scream at a jagged shore. A secret never told. No you can’t go there. No one can. There is no there.
A harsh spot on the sun. The last sigh of a tree butchered, sinking to the ground. A raging desert wind sweeps empty miles to the bitter horizon, where dry heat bleaches skin to bone. A young child, bent, broken boned, silent with an empty extended belly. Crumbles of brain sprinkled on tar. An angry duststorm, tweaking mighty sand dunes in play. A furious flood rages through desert lands, submerging hopes and dreams. Faith is a joke. A supercilious smile. A dog cries hideously at the moon, a non-stop loop. Sink to the cold floor, flail at the heavens, tear your hair out, weep empty sobs from your gut, curse the skies with no-meaning words. Cry, cry at the wailing wall. A flood of mumbled laments. Gasps. Oaths.A flood of incoherent sobs, the words running into each other, a shorthand saga. Of treachery, of loss, of betrayal, a wail. The overwhelming sorrow of generations past. A cursed legacy. Deadening. Dead hope, acid pain seeping seething in drop by drop in the DNA. A fractured genetic code plays out. Wailing, flailing at the immobile. Unheard. In a black void with cold stars aglitter, the planets play at planchette Deafening, this howl of the banshee wind at the artic. Icebergs gloss, groan like a dying animal. An overcast sigh, driving ice rain. Searing sorrow. Piercing. How normal, how trite, passé . A startle reaction. Cursed to tremble and shiver at sound. A chair moved. A phone bell. The hum of airconditioning walks upon your nerves. Block out sound. Nothing lasts. Your mind shrieks. Cry. Cry for the dead. For the unborn. For virii that mutate, that wreck the embryo unborn, for the sins of their fathers. For the blast shattered, the limbless, the amputees, the widowed, the orphaned and suddenly deaf. For new clothes with shiny price tags thrown out. Cry for the curse ,the wealth of the land, for black gold, for metal veins ferreted underground. For lines thrust upon a map. For overflowing granaries and hunger deaths. For color, for race, a dice throw. For shame of it all, for the weight of living. Soul cages.
(title courtesy-Sting)

11 comments:

Cherie! said...

Oh my God Austere! You okay?

E said...

Well written, stark images...sadly two typos though. Distracting, even though it is obvious the author is distraught.

abbagirl74 said...

So much emotion. Truly harsh, in a beautiful way.

austere said...

cherie- am always ok, no?

e- will clean up the typos, thanks


abbagirl- as the Bible says, a time to mourn, a time to heal

Paavani said...

No words for this. Sometimes just plain silence

GhostOfTomJoad said...

Like you said in the last post, I guess it depends on the road one takes. Nice!

Got here from Prerona's...I think!!

driftwood said...

Makes me think of Kevin Carter.

austere said...

paavani- yes, silence

ghostoftomjoad- thanks, er welcome.. nice to dipstick colors of abrasive pain once a year, dontyouthink?

driftwood-hmm who?*feeling ancient*

driftwood said...

The photojournalist who killed himself after shooting the award-winning pic of a starved child in Africa with a vulture behind him.

austere said...

ouch.
yes, duly googled.
does one have any right to an " ugh! awful!" re this?

Cherie! said...

Anyway, aap khayal rakho, okay?