Thursday, September 30, 2010

The Rain

in silence does all of live revolve,
in silence does the mist blinding thickly fall,
in this moment of true worship of nature,
the heavens unknown and time too soon to call,
for nature has no patience of being impatient and she dances ,
as the world desires of her moving palette,
for beauty is borne of her,and she who is the light of all that live.
the blossoms of winter open to the sky,
and the leaves of trees and the grass of earth,
the moist tempted taste of the dew of birth,
for the skies are plain but not of the flowery clouds,
but black as the dim caster of heavenly shadows.
the cold wind that rustles and moans,
of drawing storms the heart of man so often fears,
as the falcon bows before the gale and master.
the sun is forgotten in the bliss of darkness,
for light is but the brightest  witness of the world and life,
and the spirit of mankind does awake in the black,
and no candle burns in this harsh wind of natural cleansing,
the rain falls lightly upon the sand and sea,
the trembles of waves echo deep within the oceans bottom,
and in the break of sudden quiet,the rain falls slowly like a dream.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

The wild and free

-A Tribute to Christopher Johnson McCandeless 

Oh fair and faithful wind,
Aid thy wind for thy freedom of flight,
As the sound of night that does pierce my heart,
And My falling heart that does tremble at the start,
For the walls that ground my freedom,
These walls that hide me from my home.
Oh fair Society and your faithful loyalties,
My mind evades them yet I love them still,
The stray dogs bristle by the scorn of another,
At the stalking wolf of moonlight days,
Here at the crosswords of my father's strength,
I leap from the mantle made by man, 
like the falling feather that does dance with gaiety in the fall,
Running wild and free as the wind is awake in me,
These lonely grounds are mine alone,
Mine alone to bathe naked in spirit,
and mine to wander wherever I please,
And now I am free... 

The dogs of war

The bliss of the morning sun, 
And the late kiss of night, 
For the hound that carried his heart in the fist,
and he was always lost in the light.

The screaming bullet that haunts his sleep,
His tears to dry yet his mind weeps in the deep,
The curtain of slumber, so soft in its comfort,
But the morning will never come.

Those dreams of death and disease,
The faces of clouds and his daring memories,
And the cold hands reach his heart in the mourning rain,
Falling and falling, how quickly comes the pain.  

Tragedy and on its comic behalf,
For the world is laughing in his head,
The heavy thunder of madness struck,
The wounded man who slept and wept.

The steel was firm and the trigger hard,
The waiting bullet that loves him not,
Yet the sweet smell of heaven's illusion,
Calls this night swiftly for his darkening madness to end peacefully.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

when the day becomes the night

the desert crawled empty of life and time,
the endless sands that threw the wind in its wake,
and the world still remained empty of truth;
for the heavens were emptied of their gods and their lies of freedom,
lost in the giant ocean that deepened the world and the skies.
far above behind the sun,
the lord of time and the master of domains,
cloaked in the bright eye of the world,
must he cast his shadow of pity,
upon the crumbling sands that shamed misery,
and in his eyes did the maddened ocean rise,
for the lands did scorch in hunger,
and with sweet passion does nature reply with her soft embrace,
the vivid colors of her charms and spells,
of hues and shades that pleased the roving eye,
and he watches her graceful dance,
her dainty feet,they stroke the melody of her song,
the mother of life and all that prevailed,
but her smile,Oh the terror that streaked her lips,
but yet innocence beheld her warmth and care,
and in her eyes for compassion showed her,
she made the love of he who watches constantly,
in the darkening night of this broken twilight,
the comforts of lovers beneath all romance,
the fearful ecstasy moaned its lush pleasure,spinning the world in that passionate fury,
and the children of life were indeed born in love.

the silver crescent stood upon the edge of her lips,
the stars burnt in the mist of her alluring fragrance,
for the whole world was joyful for her love,
and her mighty voice did carry her love and hopes,
and she danced and danced,captivated by the sound of her heart,
ever beating,timelessly and open,
she calls to the world for blissful harmony,
for there is still mercy within the serpents noose,
as the prey does battle for the strength of its last breath.
for this wonderful mistress of time,
should her gentle hands caress and carve the lines that draw beauty,
the affection of a mother unto them,borne of simple love,
for every mark upon their skin,and the beauty still remains in every beast:
but for the love of romance,this elusive romance,
for the nature of a mother to nurture the life that is hers to cherish,
for the world was turning and time had yet blissfully been forgotten,
the past of youthful nature should dare look back,
the face of the fading sun,standing alone and upon the sea,
lifting its sadness of flight for the skies and world to see,
and there did she remember the warm heart of her receding lover,
and she praised his name in the dark that bound her to his power,
that sadness is buried deep in her womb,
she cried forever and for none in the pains of that birth,
swallowing her woes for mercy had passed,
and she held her bleeding child to her breast and woe betide the painful agony of painful memories,
but this child and son in silence did endure the misery of his mothers tears...

Sunday, September 5, 2010


 a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 

chapter 21: Nothing                                                                                                                           

To feel nothing as the music is pulled out of my ears and before my eyes to see the melody that struck my senses like the passion that still burns in my heart so deeply when I breathe with every gust of wind that blows into my veins. Into the black passage as a numb voice filled with a certain meaning now rules beneath my tongue and soars like the high string between fingers. Nothing but the cloud is slipping away and I have become the passing shadow fleeing across the sun. With every second I have spent writing, for the words that are spoken softly by mine does the elegance of my speech hinder the hearing of the silent. Swerving out of the darkness to hear the first words the tongue had to utter, spitting the unhinged fathom that deepened of every letter of the sacred lips.
Departing the ground and farewell to the forbidden sky of dreams, riding on the plain sound of the falling footsteps, and out of the blue did the sky turn grey and I am waiting as always to feel the rain upon my face. Illusions, I fear, for the thunder of the storm, grumbles at my witness of its natural fury but to question its temper and the roar of the deluge as the shadows weep still and again.
Sweeping drops of the ever welcome rain and my heart that beats at every fall and suddenly the universe has become one with the elusive grains of time. With love do I stand above, with the sadness of a man in eternal sin of the loss of his freedom in my mind and for that must I weep alone. The tears that I speak of in all my days have made me a man of simple understanding of what I see and to cleanse my words upon the trial of questions as each answer is clearer than the next. The pain of the slashing sleet that creeps along my skin at the grace of this crystal rain and my morning was better awakened.
One day to write and find the meaning of nothing as deep an image that leaves the balance of imagination and reality swaying gently to the winds of chance.


a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 20: Gauntlet
Here, there and everywhere,
Ghosts and mirrors of plenty that stare,
A castle and kingdom for the bards riddle,
And a mark upon the glistening midnights middle.

The stars have fallen as the darkness runs,
Bloody stairways have the old kings become,
And the tale of death has yet begun,
And the silence and black has swallowed the sun.

Follow the rose stripped off her thorns,
Flowering red and the cold eyes of storms,
As she drinks of those loved hands,
And locked in the tower is the shadow of man.

She is but the actress of his mind,
As she twirls about before the looming twilight,
Dancing the seduction he knows so well,
And the story of hearts too soon to tell.

As hunger was held upon the glade,
As often can strike the silver blade,
For lips that burn with the rushing fever,
As often can see the lost water in the river.

There are wonders of magic and illusions,
As soft as the frail girl that turns,
Who looks beyond heavens gates,
Above the rising cloud for her to stay.

For so sudden a change in the sky,
For the flood of the world today to cry,
Soil and skin have grudged no fair deluge,
But she stands sadly parted from his towering refuge.

Now the rose that lay stripped off her thorns,
Her eyes lay hidden and damned by the gods,
Death that wagered her pain and curse,
The thorn that pierced her heart to burst.

Synchronised suicide

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 19: Synchronised suicide                                                                                                                        

Nobody watches the man who is standing at the edge of his life and balanced at the fall cast out at the break of a cliff, hanging above the jaws of certain death. What goes on his mind, and he seems to have valued his life of every aspect and while he dreams about nothing, he stands with his life dangling dangerously from his fingers and he knows his voice is lost to himself.
Talking to himself, he ponders aloud as reassuring the solid stone that never fails to fall. A man still asking questions as he stands at the grim door of his reception to bid farewell. Does he know what he can see, to touch the mother that fed all her children yet she forgot how to breathe with the stillness that the young life of her was born. If only I were to comfort him, to be human in the eyes of the wounded animal but I see that his pity no longer stands in the way.Death that slowly haunts the soul that stands at his door and he waits patiently for the man’s final embrace. He who has the silence that he considered more of the significance that kept him alive, has now become filled with his studied speech.
In his mind and his averted eyes, he is falling and falling with the heaviness of his heart and his spirit stands above him as he imagines the beauty and the grace of the divine welcome of his rewarded foolishness. Would his arms outstretch themselves, if finger by finger lost their last resolution as his knuckles have cracked the marble white of the cold bone.
Visions of himself as a terror stricken child and a puppet of his free will that wanders in the land of refined happiness.
To speak with words that provide him pleasure like the honey that nature has to find to feed its only starving child. It’s sad that a child a cloak of mystery has wrapped its fabric around the suddenly speechless mind and I walk away from him, cursing the blame upon his eyes that watched tragedy and chaos and the shame I find in complete victory as the shadows play around his ankles and now hold his sleep.

The day I found my mother

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 18: The day I found my mother                                                                                                

In the shade do I find the merriment of peace and quiet, that surround my small world  of a spiral tranquillity, when I bend the branches to support my back as I sit to my heart’s content on my dear mother’s lap. This stomach of mine has ached to be starved and the water to drink and to quench my thirst has finally become just a survivor’s desire. Should you be still, cried the trees for they moaned with age and I found joy as they bent low above my head to kiss me tenderly upon my brow.
As I am seated at my mother’s knee, the hand of her love that breaks the stone of her legs and I leave my lips upon her hand and to her loving nature she holds me true to her. The softest cheeks that did touch mine as she held her warm breasts against the wind, for in truth is her love unquestioned. I am but a child in her arms as I find her slender fingers to play with affection and she has loved me for each step that I took unto her and words are all that I have to express as she holds close and her breath is of love itself.
How I desire to sleep forever in this place and to hear myself as every sense is nourished by her voice and I never want to disappear from her sight.
Through her eyes I see the sun, as she smiles down at me, what is the love that has been misunderstood for so long? I cry with my age old innocence, to see her I am silent for she refuses to listen to my sadness as she kisses me with rushes of the wind that come by whistling in my ear. The moon to mock the sun behind her smile as the night has faced her over the horizon that calls to me in the twilight beckoning. From her feet to hold her dearest affection when my sleep is warm before the wind cries.
The thrill of the heights of her tall stature has filled me till the completed verse that echoes in the evening daze and a warm blanket is never too far away as the cold creeps into my skin and lips and my eyes are yet to close but this day has passed like I never thought it would and I am happy for I have found her today and I know where she waits for her son and she left me at the turn.
At the turn that was still left turning, I ask her oh mother and mother of earth, have I learnt to love you with all my spirit?

Mirror, mirror

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 17: Mirror, mirror                                                                                                                            

Standing in the plain shower washing over my sense and I stand holding the wall as I drench myself in the warm bath. Looking through the small window as the water drips and falls drop by drop from the flattened ends of my dissolving hair, I see the sun suddenly looking back at me. A good morning indeed and I dry myself in front of this old mirror. It has been ages since I last looked at me, standing naked before me; I can barely see the perfection upon the contours running deeply on my skin.
As a child do I remember that I spoke so loud that I could not hear myself as I shouted every word in my head and it were only my eyes that could hear the reflections of my lips. How many times would I stare into my own eyes, never understanding what lay behind them and to search for something else instead, just to look away from them. Am I peculiar with these feelings that I confess of my forever selfish concerns and so often consumed by curiosity of what I see in this mirror. Questions and questions I ask them still, one by one that I count the pebbles that lay scattered around me and what of these questions must I answer now for every answer I know.
A reflection of myself and just me and only me and the only question that remains is that all I have seen, could that be everything that I want to see? Sitting in a room and hiding from the wind and the trouble seeking clouds outside waiting for me to turn my cheek for every slap that I should expect out of every word that I hear myself speak.
Shedding as much light on my smile as I can, running the mile in my heart as fast as I can to achieve everything that I desire so badly and the milk of my efforts are starting to show on my face. The signs of hesitance and the troubled wrinkle upon my temple have laughed with mirth at the sight of each other for the vain smile has now vanished. Tongue tied before the mirror as my magically conjured laughter vanishes again and now the spirit has become dormant in its release.
The strongest believer that I am myself, would I remember the seconds that keep slipping away?

The window

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 16: The window                                                                                                                     

The eyes of the street have searched and lost,
The footprints of the paths that I have crossed;
And holding the severed neck of trust,
The curtains now fall before the exodus.

Unmarried lovers that sweep the roads,
Of unwanted filth and love that shows,
And marry the patriot ever so proud,
And the children of god to fall from his cloud.

The four winds have turned the stone,
That sat like the world all on its own.
And through this window blows the cold,
And the skies and oceans sing for the bold.

Hinder the moment I said untrue,
And question the rain the sky turned blue,
When I think of all things made of gold and silver,
To shine like gods among the homeless shiver.
A woman walks to the sound of freedom,
A man follows her steps to the temple found,
They pray together and laugh forever,
Watching the stars fall slowly into the swerving river.
We have flown the skies so many times,
But ever have we wondered how the falcon climbs,
As the storm approaches and we cry instead,
The majestic wings beaten fierce and the eyes of dread.

The throne upon the hill

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 15: The throne upon the hill                                                                                                 

The hurling waves that crash upon the scattered rocks that lay at the bottom of the rising hill. Around the island and across the forgotten sea to the unknown world. Behind the oceans back does the wooden island crawl among the reflections of the sky. The sand is painted deeply upon the patient oak and humbled beyond the tide of the heat, the broken waves of the fair blue sea must spray of the cold to wash their feet as they touch the temple upon the sands, unmoved in the years passed. What catches the sunlight that falls through the rain that pours when the sky is full. In the stormy eyes of her virgin calypso, she dances above the twisting jungle, caught in the pain of its wild romance.
The tempest is blind with cold ambition of the most terrifying eclipse of the balance between the seas and dreams. In the heart of the mountain’s wildest dreams, a carpet of velvet untouched by life, awaits no one and all the trees that stand by it, as the welcoming subjects of the empty throne. A faint light that falls through their fingers and upon the cracked arms of the stone carved for a king unheard of. In the shadows, a dead and gone spirit of the past mind lurks without a sound among the crowd by the thick carpet.
There is no story to tell as the flying image of just the picture turning to dust but what else can be dreamed of, if not the remains of the distant peace. The dust has turned the darkest shade under the coat of shadows cast by the star sprinkled night.
The silver ghost that rides the ocean, gliding over every wave that tempted the patient spears waiting for their king. The moon slips away from its eyes to hide behind a cloud, passing over the timeless seat of the coming sovereign, and the moth that flutters against the trap of the web spun around his arms, resting till the night has waited long enough.
The waves are bristling with impatience, drowning the ears that listen to his whispered footsteps, silently falling upon the sand and to climb the tragedy of a long lost memory. In the darkness does his light shine more than the moon as he disregards the silhouette that calls him back to the sky and above the cliff etched out against the violet velvet soaked in the sea of sudden colour. Being the silent mistress of what the king should desire, ascending and elevated, the welcome of his moonlight descending, for he looks at his throne and in his eyes did he watch his kingdom but to never claim his rightful place in the world of kings of mortal values and queens of judgment and never the love for man and the night on that island had never been so clear.
the dawn is cautious as his eyes weep quietly beneath his greying crown and the stars are all but in sadness without his vanishing smile. His walk to his rightful surrender seems so endless and yet he remembers it all so well. The blade of his rule is shattered before his hand and with only the hilt to hold dear as he breathes with a softness that only his lips can remember. This is the night and a world of its own in the silence of the world, for peace has found happiness and all is calm.

In the dark

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 14: In the dark                                                                                                                                            

In this dark outlet of mine, I see not the darkness that surround the ones claim darkened but alas! Vain are the efforts to control this manner of the darkest voice in which i must speak. Behold! The gods have seen this spirit I hold in darkness and hear this O fellowship of councils and of man and of god, I care little for i grieve more for the light of this darkening and this is where the darkness ends.
I am awake and completed within the walls of my freedom and I still wish I could shatter the growing barriers for my reach could travel further. In the brittle spirit of an everlasting conquest, I stand to adore the blade sung of tearing flesh that is strapped to the hilt and I feel the lace around my fingers that runs like a river of silver. But the eyes can see what every man could have seen, without his hands that can touch what can be seen, for in the land of this light must my feet make their mark.
Over the oceans, above in the bubbling fury of what dreams begin in what precious time sleep can offer, a journey alone to the end of the road and just to find myself at the beginning.
I have learnt that I live with pride with my selfish concerns when I look into every mirror hopping I would look back again and to see my reflection that for so long have I waited to see.
The darkness of the humblest soul that flees from the coming of the heart’s apocalypse that can be seen from vein to vein as even the stars cease all mischief to stop and stare. From this distance, the crowded rooms behind those walls, I am watching the faces dissolving with just my fingers to count the lies on their smiles. At the burning end of the wistful cigarette, the only light burning without concern of how dark the night has become. I have seen those faces smiling in my head, snarling like wolves with every twitch of their lips, and they are sure to speak without reason for they know they have none.
I long for the stars and moon that shine so brightly by the midnight trail into its own darkness and now before I say goodbye, here again is where the darkness ends.

Glass wires

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 13: Glass wires                                                                                                                                       

Grinding the dry leaf entrusted within my palm and realising nothing but just how quickly time goes by as searching for something can prove to be so candid and the errand of the gods above with the power to overwhelm the simple soul that troubles of his body and mind and should never matter anymore. Walking hand in hand with the truth of him to reflect upon the undying energy pulsating within. How quickly goes the water from my lips before I drink and the essence of my speech with words before I speak. Bowing down to uncertain eruptions of the blowing passion of unspoken and unheard voices without faces and the curling cloud upon my descending into my self-centred space.
Describe what of my surroundings as I cross the often travelled journey between space, never ending and ever changing, and earth where I am buried deep into the roots of a world unaccounted for.
My emptiness of purpose which lies in my perception, never fails to keep off the hardened and misunderstood chest that rumbles with discomfort inside my lungs and my very breathing is forced of my comfort of life. Poetry, they call it, and fiction for it seems to open an imaginary sky of their free will. The chords of my heart are strung lively of a melody that is faint and that resounds of the fair bird’s flight into its purpose. As the pointless arguments are spared from my ears and the open stream of blood and wine have given light to the glass wires that are neatly wrapped around my ankles and I stumble to my feet as the balance is restored of my body and mind of which I have sorely missed.
Invisible enough, as they had torn the boundaries of its very existence as they wound themselves around and round they climbed of every fibre of mine. Time yet again has slipped so far that the hands of the clock and the grains of the sand forgive not the shadow that falls upon the dark side of the world in the centre of the universe.
Guided by the wind that has followed me for all these days, I have arrived at the desert and thankfully I am lost. Trudging the sand with unexpected dreams of finding the road, I am happy and well and this journal is finally starting to make some sense.

Calling for an umbrella

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 12: Calling for an umbrella                                                                                                        

The city street grumbles under the thundering echo of the new born sky and waiting to cry at the sound of my sad song as I step into the puddles as I walk with an umbrella, black among the thousands and I have to wonder of how many weep with their tears for they are not a part of and behind they weep still, behind the darkening clouds moving among us.
This pointless use of an instrument of prevention has now become the mask that hides the gentle rain that should fall lovingly upon my face and I don’t want to see the sun today for I wish to gain nothing on this rainy day. I look back over my shoulder at the many shades of grey and I feel that the rain is falling harder than before, drenching my lips as they open to love and to close when I finally open my eyes in the downpour beating upon my face.
My last cigarette has sold me out at last as the ash now trickles down my fingers and my throat would like to speak and to caress the sweet words I knew yesterday. To see the white pillars of smoke turning on their own in the wide open sky, and every raindrop that spins in the drawing circle that envelopes my being and that has trapped my voice inside the containing umbrella.
Sitting alone without a thought in this gloom and alone on a rock and my fingers are open to outstretch and I try to catch every raindrop that falls away from my face. I take the trouble to smile like everybody but the corners of my mouth have stretched enough and the pretence has been carried away by its own pleasure. But through all this, my joy and happiness that they cannot seem to see or hear, brings me all the more affection towards this soulful alliance with my miscarried laughter.
It’s raining for I wish for it to begin and heaven must cry for their peace as it soaks itself in its pride and the angels pretend to comfort themselves as their wings have no feathers and they weep for their memories of servitude. The cross is burning under the roof and all their tears will never wash away. Down the pier I find refuge from this now abysmal deluge I have realised and I thank the heavens for slipping away with the rain that has passed over and dropping its beloved counsel that is muttered in every prayer and I am thankful for the rain that now wets my umbrella.

The silver tears and the pot of wine

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 10: The silver tears and the pot of wine   
The ecstasy so queer that my tongue should stammer the pain that bathes in the river to break the cold thorn, buried in my empty heart and I shiver in the glory of it all. No longer does emptiness have a place where the thousand sounds of every heart beat that claims its broken pulse. Fragments and remnants of the once strong army of words that failed to confess of what secrets lay docile and hidden deep, but now to appear to heal the essence itself though the touching moment may have passed but oh what will I do or say as my questions and answers use the same ladder to climb from nothing and to elevate the certain.
Must I spend my every rising day to dream of the beauty that is cold at its touch to shatter every glittering mask of gold. Beauty is cruel and the mistaken man must pay with his conscience silenced just to look in her eyes and she that calls to me and I to her and we as one must my shadow run from me and has her twisted smile that I fear so well. To dine at the empty table, the lesser hunger that chased my thirst for love, for too long have I gazed at my half empty plate.
I dreamt of love herself one day in the wake of her soundless footsteps and could I explain every reason of her every movement as the silk of her skin that has followed me till here. My fingers that slipped through her hand and the ghost of her long lost tragedy of her fateful smile that called me the witness to the greatest and only form of her divine love. a tramp for his existence sits alone as always, pushing and pulling all that was needed, I sit alone in the woods, a memory to hold me as I still dream of her tonight and I want her so, the fair lady of creation that could escape her fate to sleep undying.
Beside this love, he sleeps and wakes, so restless in his being the guardian of promise and fortune that married the holy garland around her neck. Fallen with love, the world has been drained of what truth my heart offers to her and she that drinks a drop of wine from the tip of her finger, and the taste of her eyes and lips as my eyes are opened only to relish.


a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 9:  Caught   
Here I am in the silent secrets and here I am caught by shadows in love. The meaning of fear has pierced me so deep that I tremble at the softest rustle of the leaves beneath my feet. Finding refuge behind the bark of a pine and I wonder how far could my feet runaway from home. Listening intently to the crowded voices that intend to speak out of turn, telling me that I should run left and right, turning forwards and backwards and out of their sight, and to flee north and south for eternally the east has become the wind of the west and the turn at the road has been lighted by the moon and the night has become dangerous and grudging. Leaning against the corridor of a deceitful companion of unearthly soil and I look from side to side, waiting for the footsteps to sound at the march of the hunt.
Suspicious of this night for it is still that I can hear the life of mine running so hard that my heart cannot keep the pace. Keeping the silence that is so hard to keep among the restless doubts that hinder the midnight escape from the startling daze of the revealing sun.
I have nothing to hide from as my eyes can see and understand the nature of my distress but there can be no comfort from the moon and stars tonight for the natural son can hide himself from the roving bullet that whistles in the dying wind. The crime of living within the secrets that circle like the spiralling wires that climb my innermost thoughts and run away, runaway from the cold becoming colder as the night has turned me against , and inside out as the flesh has turned to bone in the eerie light.
Carried away by the rash spurring of my tired legs on the ground, to sprint to paradise for the world is too cold for me to bear now. A human in the benevolent guise of blood and warmth and of my humanity that remains so little after the abuse of my so called freedom from sleep and that touches like thorn among the black roses in the dark. Welcome, welcome they cry as they flower in the crushing darkness as I am plunged into the poison of my deeds. Holding my hands over my head as I fall to my knees and I wish for a saviour in birth of no virgin mother and to cry at my ignorance as the sun has started to rise above the moon and I must walk back home in a while.

From behind the cage

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 8: From behind the cage 
The black butterfly that flutters around the circles behind my eyes and with its wings do I play to the changing colours of the light. To shield the sneering sun away from my gaze did I raise my hand and the shadow of the day has found its rest upon my face. Lying on the grass and I wish for the wind to sweep my soul along with the rush of my every breath that decides to pass through time after time.
The entertaining illusions of the clouds that chase the dreams of wild men across the sky, and all I see is the lions dreaded fangs of the hazy white and the sight of its bearing on me, to steady its haunches to defend. The steel fence that cuts my skin as I graze my head against the wires, and its shaking and twisting in the agony of my lesser freedom from the ground. The snarling beast and its mourning howl that pours every dream to their ends that left me to linger in the empty moment. But from afar can I hear the children’s laughter that echoes like the calling so often suggested that I may never understand.
The mane upon his proud head that shivers like the wisps of smoke, gliding like the mist that falls so quickly before me, cloaking my terrified eyes inside that dreams of the hallowed angels seem to beckon, mocking and chaotic. The thunder that rumbles deep from his throat as he roars from the frozen horizons in terror, as my heart slowly rises and falls to the stop.
In defeat and in loss, should my tears seem so significant, though the world has stopped moving, I cannot but help to smile at the bristling feathers of hope, falling and flying through the open jaws of emptiness. She soars above the crescent demon now silently stepping aside. She that rips the fragments between the centre of the clear blue sky and she knows of no fear and bows not before the giant eye that watches the world that sleeps peacefully.
The blind to be freed to watch her careless wings that flower of grace and freedom and the light of their hopeful sight will find them soon.
The delightful dreamer is perched upon the highest cloud and he waves his hands to crave my attention and I wish, I wish but the cage grows bigger and my fingers can reach only so far.
I scramble to my feet before it’s too late; to dust my face for it seems to have been so long time. A glance at the watchtower hovering weightlessly in the west and I shake my fist at the still burning sun and I turn around walking backwards into the abyss.


a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 7: Shiva
In the blue light of the waning moon,
Upon the black wood and the sorry fool,
Acting like the silent devil deep in thought,
Forgetting the last word that seems to be so lost.

Of silver hair that wept till his feet,
And a crown so poised as poisonous yet sweet,
And the flattering of the voices across the world,
Prey not upon the flesh bitten off the cold.

The rain that sleeps above the high mountain,
And the road to vanish at the turn,
And the fool thinks he has lost nothing,
Yet the rain falls and he bears no wings.

Mirrored of these sullen days of misfortune,
As hollow nights can be granted no moon,
And the footprints of a man has led to follow,
The world before the womb and before the swallow.

For the thievery of the late hour,
And the silence of him has been higher,
The flickering flame that burnt that night,
So suddenly could a soul shine so bright?

The great minds that did baffle themselves,
For concrete thoughts that should stand on shelves,
The weight cannot be carried by strength,
And the swiftness of the mind so broken and bent.

Purple skies and pointing eyes,
All these days the clouds have not cried,
And the day has come to finally gather,
Beneath the burning sun we lighted together.

The devil’s eye

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 6: The devil’s eye                                                                                                                       
For long has the world waited for the moon to fall deep into the shadow of the ocean, for the night is clear, all but the wasp that seems to make love alone. As I walk along the road that is falsely accused of leading somewhere safe, my arms are outstretched to the high vesper in the sky to imagine the fall in my welcoming arms.
Should it rain stars of fire burning the crimson hue to a child of delightful glee, for now the fading night is dark, yet alive of sounds never meant to be made and no matter what, here I stand the seeker of the morning sun. Come sorrow to where I stand waiting, walking slow with an arrogance gleaming in every step. Dare I say what followed me here as the watchful shadow that creeps along the wall that surrounds my heart and forbidding as it shudders when the unknown has come to light.
The trails have I followed that lay beneath the crystal water, though savage and peculiar they seem, they can grow no darker. Nights have I seen with senseless lights bickering above the buildings to drown the screams of the crumbling cities, for with sorrow must the helpless souls care for their need of self-pity.
The challenging murders of the heart that rest bitter before me, as I hold dear all that I see and suddenly now the coldest and fair have in turn, to bewitch the silent rings around my feet and to hold hands together, beside the birds that sing with no future and together to plunge into no certain consequence.
Captured by a moment of peace, and I see the eye fixed like the diadem of the sky and looking down at me, undulating and fierce. Driving the mad people insane, as the empty houses make more sense. Through the glass stained with my face imprinted upon the looking glass, this demons eye that taunts my nerves and the terror of my body on fire and the searing pain is soon bearable. Painted personalities are hung around my window, hung by the simple thread that can neither speak nor understand.
But quiet now, my master approaches.

The spiral

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 5: The spiral                                                                                                                              
Where dreams belong in lavish flavours,
Where the truth lies upon the returning favour,
And the masks of men that soon turn away,
For the unravelling ropes now have nothing to say.

The universe and sky beneath and above,
For the subtle hearts for this land must love,
And the tearing skin of the setting sun,
Under the eyes of the deep to become as one.

The winding and whirling maelstrom,
Dancing upon the seas and the tide to come,
The empty circle inside and out,
And the whispers of oceans that spill from the mouth.

One has become all to be counted,
The remains to be thrown and soon departed,
And the rain of gods that fall with longing,
For the wild tulip has long waited to sing.

A puddle in the street

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 4: A puddle in the street                                                                                                                

A small child of six years old that sits like a stone upon the steps he was left just gazing, to watch the sun rise above his eyes and to him, it grows brighter than himself for when he smiles at the sky. He looks to his dreams for spoken comfort, for they speak all night and whisper in his ears the rushing hour of day. The dawn has left the stars behind as they shine between his black eyes, and a bowl of fresh happiness that steams in his lap for his mouth waters at the warm sight of love. Of what love and of what sensitivity, should his face radiate the unspoken love of everything around his world.
There is no one he seeks where his unseen features are recognised by the common eye, but no matter his self –claimed curse of his unreal paradise, this world is forever his to watch over. By the throbbing of his heart and the heavy yet calm whispers of the aging trees that sway and groan mournfully to his every command. With what family that is left to bestow upon the care and affection of a young man’s heart, loneliness must kiss the child in her arms goodbye.
Beside the face and behind the mask that resides still like a candle without a flame to show its existence, and by the tree where he has found his place where the world passes by so slowly and never to glance at his vivid shadow in the shadows of their midst. The young sparrow that should be so idle in the morning has shown no desire to tire for every passing passion.
There are promises that seem to run like deep scars within his burning flesh, but if only his life was better left unexplained as everything he wishes to leave and its elusive footsteps are but a few moments away from waking up to follow the signs of his fate, that stretches and crawls across the moving hills and the dusty plains.
In his hand that carries his only burden, an apple seed that would never go amiss in the false crowd of the planet, and must only his hands that should forage the muddy carcass of his beloved earth. Curiosity has played its hand, for it must grow with the life of its existence and understood and realised for the leaf will bear no fruit lest the garden of the gods have shown the world true compassion for life. In the strength of his arms, his spirit holds him close like the angel of his bare skin and the sky must part in song for one last time.
Restless winds that did play with his hair of where he stands above the mound of fresh mud, now that the wind bites him lovingly as it did yesterday and the applause is silent. 

natural son

a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy 
chapter 3:natural son

An auspicious beginning of the tale of a man so very pale, and the bright side of an afternoon comes together under the shade of the leaking roof and an oddly-shaped chair. A beast prowls outside the walls of the house and terror has now struck the peaceful hour. My time has been measured of the consistent length and this journal I keep is finally shaking with words and the ink has choked at the final word before it has been written and every drop of ink that should have been spilt.
How long ago did the panther haunt the midnight door that led me starved of the night where the bells of the city tolled till dawn. The spaces between every word that I never left on purpose as I scratch every pause I stress between every emotion that I conjure of my rash interception. Now again and here again, I watch the night endlessly and the stars of day are still to shine through the brightest day I have yet to see. My satisfaction finally seems to show promise where my hollow reasons have deceived me endlessly but now, I have finally allowed time to move on without me. Tired, did I walk like the bruised dog and left me with a parched tongue that I could not quench. The hours of time grow weary as my mind begins to slow with every second.
Tiring of the blazing afternoon that my thirst should be greater and my blood is mild of my heart’s desires, for wandering the plains like the barefoot sage who cries at the sores on his feet if they were the wounds of his painless life. My imagination has runaway with and now away from me, holding the clouds in its hands as it flees across my mind. The running wild that submits to no form of nature and it has guided me to my bed on the cloud above the mind.
I hold my head in the sudden panic of the settling dust and to crouch over the walls of bricks and stone, to the land of my birth and in an instant the future makes a fool out of me. Raging at the cross that burns at my door, the vision has become clear as the sun has stopped shining and the glass through which I stare into my madness that has consumed and cracked at the blunt edge beneath my thumb.
This natural son and his closing eyes are all that the world must claim for he has no family and no country and yet his happiness remains in himself.

the birth

the strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy
Chapter 2: the birth

Remember when it was still yesterday,
So young and yet pale as the tender moon that night;
I still remember how began that day,
But how should it end so soon?

His children gather behind their father,
Listening with open ears to endless stories,
While his voice speaks as a night should stir,
His fear is all but what the world must believe.

I can hear footsteps walking lost without their heels,
Climbing softly to a sky though the ladder will not go down;
Awaiting the faint horizon on comforting knees,
Long have we waited for a king to crown.

As a child be born to its tear stained mother,
The blood of its birth spilt upon the eyes that gaze,
From the ocean will he wash his body,
And burn the darkness of man for all his days.

chapter one: A very brief introduction to a strange journal into the unemployment of S.Kandaswamy

chapter one:  A very brief introduction

Stories and stories told by mouths that are bigger and louder than the thoughts that lay speaking softly to the wind though the heart cannot capture the true words that spill from the blank eyes of the subtle senses of the human mind. Poetry and the beauty of words that touch the inner perfection of speech for a diary of pages and the ink has no time to spare for another word on its page and the stories are getting closer as the words are spoken by man himself in his adventures of his unemployment and he remembers it all so well as gifted a magician can rise or the shutters of his brain have been closed too long for him to hold on to his memories in fear.
Dreams have long been a question mark in every answer as they change with sleep as tired eyes can never refuse. As far as the dream can travel, must we shake the boat that carries us still along the rivers of the sky, for the sky is but another world and another universe and we are the passing clouds today and tomorrow.
These tales of a journal that dug the earth so deep, making the perfect holes in the grounds of reason. Written by parallel and poetic verse of the mind in the gaping hole and the days of this journal could be the setting of freedom by the hands that chained it in the beginning.
This introduction is not necessary to understand this diary of dreams and desires of the soul but this could be yet another adventure among the restless scramble of words in an illusion.