Sunday, September 5, 2010

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.

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