He teetered, nigh on the brink of the abyss, thinking
Of the creeping disquiet, that seemed to seize him.
He spoke of disillusionment, of yearning,
Of despair and hope, and of liberation.
He wrote, of the miseries of mortals,
Of masquerading myths, and of the multitudes.
He thought, of the curse of the flesh, and
Of belligerent service, in the crusades of men.
He felt, confined and bound in; torn apart by
The trappings of this world, and the next.
He demanded, the truth of it all,
If there was some such; ghastly or serene.
He answered, or his words did: It’s a womb, an egg,
Waiting while he lives each life ever lived, or to be lived,
Preparing him for his true birth, among the ‘Gods’,
Perhaps in the stars, far away from men.
He understood, though not in full measure,
Barely believing that which his words spoke,
Fondly hoping, dreaming, daring; Even supposing
The truth of that which he had so boldly sought.
And it dawned, prematurely, or so I thought; Realization—
Cold and sweet and desolate and forlorn—
That I must strive tirelessly on,
In the starry abodes of men.
By guest author:
More from this column
A LIONESS IS RISING 11 June, 2017 Featured Submissions She can dance, she does prance. Illustrated by Ishita Srivastava. She can dance, she does prance. She might sing, can fight unbelievably with a lance. She sleeps still to cradle songs. On her awakening, the...
The Forbidden Question 15 APRIL, 2017 Featured Submissions 2076 A.D. “What is it?” There. I’d done it. I had asked a forbidden question. There was no going back now. It all started on my seventh birthday; the day I was legally old enough to finally use all the...