Saturday, 3rd November, 12:15 a.m.

I sit up straight on my bed. My sleep starved eyes stare out of the open window. All I can see are rows of rectangles and squares. I wonder where the birds sleep now. Through a gap in the imposing geometry, I catch a glimpse of a blue-black object. I am surprised. I didn't know the sky was still here. But, there are no stars tonight. Vincent can't paint his pallet blue and gray. The famished clouds have swallowed them up. But, tomorrow they'll be back again; when the clouds regurgitate their dinner; to save their intestines from being cut open by the sharp corners of those wily little stars.
The moon's not here either. She knows what has happened to the stars- but her sides are smooth and round - easier to swallow. She is hiding in the sun's palace. It's a trifle warm in there. But sweating is better than being feasted on I guess.
I turn to look at the watch. Five more hours till the sun discovers the intruder in his palace and kicks her out. I have got school tomorrow (or is it today?), don't I? I better get back to sleeping now. I'll keep the monsters away tonight, I promise. Well, I'll try at least.

The Flight Of Innocence

......................

He woke up in Golgotha today.
Where severed heads lay smiling.
On the crimson bed below.

Where Death smiles a wry smile
to Himself each day.
And angels have pricked out
their own eyes.

Where the rocks have lost count
of the heroes who bled to their deaths.
But not of the cowardly villains;
Who returned unscathed.
To their lovers' arms.

Where many a pretty face
has been crushed by black stones;
Black stones in black hands.
Which ran out of bullets.

Where a few even died
At the hands of their comrades.
Who couldn't find an enemy to kill.

Where obese vultures feed during the day.
And pen odes to Man in the evenings.

Where the coarse sound of the trumpet.
Heralds a new set of warriors.
Their bloody bodies silhouetted
against a purple sky.

..................

He stood before the bright red
of the setting sun.
And the brighter red of the earth.
He remembered the little white note.
Which had arrived uninvited.
And like a rude guest
Had widowed an adoring wife.
And orphaned an innocent child.

His eyes seemed like they would
scorch the sun.
His breath was heavy.
His fists were clenched.
Vengeance had spread its vile fangs
on every inch of his body.
He was one of them now.

Closure

He stood alone at the edge of the cliff.
The river flowing in torrents below him.
The wind was playing with his hair,
while the world played with his mind.
He was confused; he was lonely.
He wanted be free.
But he was scared.

He closed his eyes,
and he could finally see.
The clear, blue sky
had never been this beautiful.
The giant oak trees around him.
Seemed like they were his guardian angels
- protecting him.
The mountains ahead looked like tiny ant-hills.
The sun's warm, bright rays
Made him feel invincible.
He wanted to keep his eyes closed forever.


But suddenly, a dark cloud appeared from nowhere
and engulfed everything with one frightful grasp.
The sky was now a grim mix of grey and black.
The ant-hills became colossal monsters again.
The mighty walls of the cliff closed in on him.
The oak trees looked like menacing murderers.
Their ragged arms outstretched,
ready to hack him to his death.
The chilly wind stung at his soft, pale skin.
Time seemed to stand still.


His mind felt like a vortex.
What was he doing here?
Why had he come to this
desolate, godforsaken cliff?
He couldn't breathe.
"Jump", a voice told him.
"What?", he asked himself.
"Jump.Jump.Jump."
"Jump if you want to live."
He wanted to live.
He jumped.

A loud splash.
And then an eerie silence.
He knew now why he had come
To this godforsaken cliff.

The Man The World Sold

You never really had a chance;
The day the world stopped - for you.
And for the generation
Whose hero lay in a pool of blood.
That cold, grey morning,
which seems so distant now.
When a reluctant piece of lead put an end
To twenty seven years of
Hurt, Suffering and Emptiness.
All that was left was a gaping hole -
In your head and
In the belief that music could save the world.
The flames you lit
in the hearts of millions.
Were doused by their tears.
While those millions wept,
A few enlightened ones smiled to themselves.
At the impudence of an idiot.
Who had set out to change the world overnight.
But ended up slain by his own hand.
A generation which had awakened momentarily,
returned to its deadly slumber.
Angel hair and baby breath
couldn't hurt you.
What did was love.
Love which was not just blind, but dead.


And now the guitar lies abandoned in a dark corner.
(Its always less dangerous with the lights out)
Among a pile of needles and shards of broken glass.
Covered by blood like rust.
It has forgotten how its master looked.
But remembers his magical touch.
On its now torn and tattered strings.