SWALLOWED BY IMPOTENCY


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I

This evil, this paralyzing demon inside me, keeps a glance at my soul.
The torture of romances from her lips, sends a huge himalaya of shivers beneath my abdomen.
Why this thistle of thrilling pains with no gains of dead dreams? And nature an irony of beauty painted in solitudes of life’s muscles. 
Chastise me, cast me into the furnace of tears and deep sobriety of toast.

II

No timely interventions, the world of my own is a myth. And who is a saviour to cleanse my woes and purify my stains?
Having been shot with life’s dead bullets, the longing for inner peace with no place to fetch her soothing waters.
My mind remains in torrential torments— deep echoes of weeping within is all I have got to take solace from.

III

The sky patched with grey mirrors, darkness flexing her egoism beyond my strength; who will be there to comfort me?
This journey I am traveling looks subduing, a quake trembles forewarning from the abyss of death.
I am only midway, and my strength has lost it gem to this trade of transexual orgasm.
The Lord’s prayer and the psalmist letters are the waters I wish to drink, though my throat looks wet though I am so dry within.

IV

Moments have scripted me to dying younger than I have anticipated, so is the gate of hell smelling with smiles of welcome.
My mathematics teacher prunes my ear with echoes of warning
“you have no bright future, only a swelling hopeless skin with no fluid.”
The classroom magicians have tried several magical works on my world; it still looks gloomy and unreadable.
Who art thou that sees beyond comprehension to wrestle me from this dilemma?

V

I am impotent, and the cry of my childlessness tickles through my spin.
The gravity of hopelessness is graver than the magnitude of my inner powers.
Poetry, being a poet and having lingered through its course of servitude has changed nothing.
The only miracle that keeps its rhythms of beats along these soft pinnacles of me is surely the salvation potion of suicide; there I have found glittering lights to comfort my soul till the iron gate of the heavens beams no more grace on my lifeless body in this dungeon.

The Village Thinker © 2014

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