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 unanswered.travel 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.

Dreams of night and thunder

do my dreams rise in smoke,swirling ministers of an empty haze, 

turning my world from black to white as i sleep by the sleepless night,

do my dreams purge the world i saw yesterday,of all that was,is born today,

the cries of destiny and of death,the sympathies of life that is hard to ignore,

and do my dreams wake the world of men in their restless ambition,

who craves the night for his blissful slumber nor did he deserve,

the sun that beat his back in his wandering days in search of peace,

nor did he know where to look,for all men did hide their faces,

as the slothful eyes did pierce his heart and still he stands the unfinished portrait,

in a dream he does not realize,for the eye of my mind sees the vision of clarity yet undefined,

and i ask myself again,do my dreams awake the simplicity of sleep,

where i place the complexities of the many sleepless days,

turning the obliging day to night in a moment of the drifting thought,

and do my dreams inspire divine destiny in its wayward path,

melting the frozen horizon of humane perception,to gain passage into the open universe.

in the light of truth,the shadow of doubt will remain,

the scared witness too young to understand the complete and whole greatness of knowledge,

mark the intricate pattern of chaos till the dream should end in the tragic sigh,

and the world does forget along with me that all i dream to see,

and the world that watches with me as we sit by the clouds and gaze beyond,

for this is a dream i forget as i see...