Dearest Rebel,
My blood bleeds blue from each sanctioned whip I took to my own pleasure, to remove it from the sanctuary built in inheritance of pain. My body bears rot, bare of any whiff signalling its existence, to deflect at the end being slain. The pain at long last severs through old aches, planting new screams on a ritualistic night decadent with the moon in wane.
So that’s how it ends, but how it started?
When did the elixir become the bane?
The wish was the start,
to become one with my enemy of the past,
To merge with it soul to soul, sewed together embroidered with threads of brass; to make sacrifices to take my name with its last; to succeed in the endeavor of living unafraid of the roaming ghosts by letting pain reside unrestricted in the golden cast near my shivering heart, and take place of a dweller that had long abandoned the state after completion of its task.
They said, “Once ripened from the budding blooms,
you would keep bearing its breathtaking fruits,
you will become accustomed to poison in its ivy
as they get drunk on the nectar of your soul.
You will know of bitterness no more, meet it in abandoned castles shrunk beneath the canopy of willowy branches no more, for it will merge with your veins, in colours of green, blue, and hints of gold, and when you drift into your haunting past, it will rise from your shadow and become new once more.
For a while, mesmerized by its polished steps
making growth with a feverish claim
you’ll let it stay, let it weave at ease its web,
let it lay for rest, let it attempt to create home instead.
But when you attempt to make it flee, panic will lodge into you at its persistent pace without stopping to admire itself in glee, myriad of attacks as you see fall with unprecedented ease, you will realize it was never meant to leave after answering your cordial invitation to lease.”
Finally, pain made its home in me.
I became it. It engulfed me.
I welcomed it as directed
by the voices of endurance from the wise old,
Fed it the leftovers of dry joys, preserved prickly emotions of attachment with all my beloveds kept in ceramics tightly enclosed. With it, the essence of pain grew daring and large, turning my flesh once cold—in its pervasive presence—a tone warmer, incrementally climbing as each acre of me it goes on to amass.
One unfortunate day,
the warmth evolved into a fire unrestrained,
catching objects in its enlarged palms, unchaining the dangers
while burning the shreds of warmth I had gained.
God, oh god, it devoured it all, its entry a timid blessing, but no exits left when it started evaporating my flesh from my very bones, my skin glowed, alight with sensations untold, the soft turned into melting horrors of nightmare with no evidence of its tyranny in the awaken world to don.
The guts wobbling in me whispered
of the mistake that came to pass
when held supreme
the temporary relief of warmth,
But now there were left no memories of joy for me to sink in, no escapades planned that’ll come to rescue me in the stygian dark this fear brings in. The absence…a reprieve from pain, if I were to seek, where shall I go now when the picturesque faces strung on walls blend to showcase the betrayed in the past yet have many agonies that leak?
I had once again repeated the past,
now stuck behind the barricades that couldn’t be surpassed.
In hope for a hand to sever through despairing contrast,
I was fooled into being, to my own life, an outcast.
I had forgotten graciously the moments where I had sweat to attain the jewels of pleasure that I gave away to buy spacious land with no neighbours interrupting the pain on sunny days. The only remembrance that remained instilled in my puppet of a mind’s craze was if the pain would like a shrine and offered fruits sweet along with a bottled wine to take?
I knew when I pleaded with a stranger
that catapulted was my wisdom
in exchange for an illusion of less cries.
For pain on pain on pain did make me oh so warm, made me unknown to the destruction at its construction of walls strung high and strong, of course, since on the other side of the wall stayed oblivious I, feeling no gaping wound in my chest for it sat haughty in the devoid seat after having ate my heart alive.
I knew a little too late,
when ice finds flesh it turns it numb,
that numbness is all but pain’s less known name.
It was the truth, you feel no pain when pain is all you feel, when the crevices of your heart fits in it an indestructible stone so consuming and whole, no shallow dips remain to hold any unknowns of happiness and cracks for the peace to be borne.
It’s true, when pain is mastered,
you feel no pain,
you are free as a bird,
scared no longer of life and its shames,
For there no longer exists your body in this realm, no vehicles to carry your accumulated wealth of sorrow, no soul left for your life to bloom where moths could follow, there is only everlasting peace and the friend you made of your enemy with whom you are left alone to wallow.
It finally hurts, and it hurts to confess,
they were indeed the wisest of them all,
befitting it was when they worshiped the glory of pain,
the more of it, the stronger its fame,
As held back was the cost, a mystery even for the preachers who sang songs of pain’s mercy unbeknownst to the unbridled shadows it cast. Aware they became only when they sunk along with unfulfilled promises in a crate. Aware I became too late, when death came not from afar, but from a room booked in my own name.
From this pinnacle of glory,
my fall would be remembered
as beautiful for all eternity
as a warning to the sane.
For the one who had nature all encompassing lets not sit another even at the very cusp of its vein. It is inevitable that a knife in its hand given for protection would be used for nothing but to give pain, and by the end of dusk, it will turn ephemeral comfort into a lasting rest, with a single unwavering thrust letting your wishes go in vain.
In another life, I must not give the unbound sea
the uncharted plateaus to evade,
and rot all that life dedicated difficult years to create.
The home to pain avoids not an inkling of pain, hear me, the pain is shrewd. When you don’t leave your castle empty for the fear of thieves and murderers, you forget the views, the lush gardens and blazing skies worthy of becoming a muse, you become the thief, you murder yourself leaving no intelligent clues. And so, I wrote my own ending with blood a bitter blue.
Rebel, dearest.