The weapon

He was later than usual. The night was very dark, it had also started snowing outside. All he carried was a cleaver in his hand. There was a slight wobble in his steps. Was he drunk?

The room was dark and quiet. He lit a candle, then took off his patched woollen coat and hung it on the peg. He lifted the hem a little- the blood had already dried and was almost invisible. Dried mud was stuck to the cloth. His coat smelled of fish, it was full of bloodstains. You cannot expect a butcher to take his coat off at work in this cold, especially when he can’t afford any other clothing. The stains were all dried and looked like rust. One cannot easily make out because of the dark wool and the dirt stuck to it. The stains looked more like a subtle pattern now, almost like a pretty design in the otherwise plain coat, he thought. He admiringly stared at his coat for a while. It looked pretty, he thought. Even if it smelled of fish and blood all day. He didn’t really mind the blood, he hadn’t decided about the fish yet.

He had placed the cleaver on the small table near the door. He looked down at it with the same air of admiration, feeling the dried trails of blood. He picked it up and walked to other door at the end of the room. A gush of ice cold wind hit him as he threw away the weapon he used to kill the man, and shut the door.

Snowflakes steadily gathered on the sharp metal outside.

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Wound

No doctor, you can’t fathom the

Depth of this wound which,

Runs through my soul and

The blood smeared ball of muscle with

Cylindrical passages,

Both of which carry deoxygenated blood.

I have little hope from,

You, and the philanthropists who,

Offer to stitch my heart severed into two.

No doctor, I don’t doubt that,

You can’t heal my wound and

Also, a local anaesthesia wouldn’t do.

 

Via Daily Post: Local

Dark Folly

I found you in the middle of chaos,

Hidden behind a sparkling veil of gloom,

You stirred my tinted glass soul,

An enigma I’d never before known.

Your gaze,  a melodious requiem,

Coldly cryptic, unlike a Sunday hymn.

I thwarted my butterfly coloured senses,

And sped towards your cindery heart,

Knew all too well that I would lie,

Beneath the worm eaten earth, when you part.

You beckoned me like an evil temptation,

I was too dazed to halt,

Suspended my noisy rationale,

I was morbidly enthralled.

Time stopped in our darkened orb,

Our roses paler than bloodied thorns,

I gave in and called it love,

Adorned with desire your world forlorn-

Or so I felt.

Because the cold, dark night of our certitude,

Lay in the open all along,

Mocking at illusions of delight-

To you, I never belonged. 

You gouged out my spirit and,

Drops of life leaked away…

But delusions never fail me.

So I pledge to find another way-

To you.