Notes from the Abyss. {poetry}
{source}
I feel so hollow,
so alienated,
in this abyss.
I am unknown.
Non-existent.
Unable to breathe.
Why do you trample me?
Under the feet that I revered.
In this void I lie numb.
In this emptiness I walk,
murdered.
Tongues slaughter happiness,
love,
joy,
honour.
Why do you murder me?
I have lived but five months,
an innocent child,
stabbed, torn to pieces,
half buried in this cave,
the abyss.
All is angst.
I sit in between those
empty bookshelves and weep.
I weep as I see
the dream fading away.
I weep as I see our vision disappear.
What you deserve becomes your need.
What we deserve is our need.
My eyes burn.
Fate destroys wishes,
so wish not for death.
The red blush, the rubicund flush.
The voice that only sang to me,
the resonance.
“Come not yet,
let me die awhile,
send me letters,
but come not, be distant awhile,
torment me.”
The silent anger,
the heavy breath,
the tender whisper,
the gentle hint
The silent companion.
Inquisitive, loving,
affectionate, questioning.
Beauty.
Those big brown eyes,
the auburn heaven, the sandy haven.
Take me , anywhere,
somewhere, nowhere.
I am a dream.
Come somewhere, anywhere, here.
I am oblivious. Unconscious.
Placid waters drown me.
The unconsciousness,
the pebble rolling in the water,
the enlightenment,
the passion, the zeal.
Revolution.
The philosophy, the black letters.
There was a fire,
a scream,
there was blood.
The weariness,
the wisdom,
the ignorant knowledge,
the nothingness.
O Mentor, O Sage, O Saint.
Do not bleed me to death,
for I have lived but five months.
Sister, O sweet sister what is my crime?
I have played but five months,
strangle me not.
I weep.
I am weak and vulnerable.
I am enraged,
I am strong and vengeful.
“Come not yet, let me die awhile.”
The weight,
the weariness, the numbness.
I will not act,
for I am not futile.
I will act,
for I am condemned.
I wrote and wrote
and erased and wrote.
But he crumpled my page
and threw it at my face.
“There is nothing.”
O Mentor! O Sage! What evil is this?
O Brother, good brother,
what oppression is this?
O Sister, good sister,
I am but a child of five months, discard me not.
O Mentor, O Brother, O Sister.
I curse you!
*****
Muhammad Ehtesham lives in Peshawar, Pakistan. He has his M.A in English Literature from the University of Peshawar and has taught poetry at Edwardes College in Peshawar. He is deeply interested in modernist and avant-garde literature. He’s not fond of long bios of himself.
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