A Man Dead Inside Me

Into that Battle of Blades, I had rushed without taking heed; 
Behind me few followed, and before me my smiling enemy. 
I will not be the first to depart, I will not be the last to bleed; 
Many shall have to die, before I have a man dead inside me. 

Archers welcome my charge, their strings tight and taut too; 
The arrows shall pierce armours, and we’re lesser suddenly. 
Another volley is prepared, strings pulled and arrows put to; 
But not before I break the ranks, with a man dead inside me. 

They can’t shoot arrows at a man standing amidst them, no; 
Not that they shouldn’t try, but my steed shall never still be. 
My mare run, my sword sweep, my enemy’s blood to flow; 
I would not cease now, and neither the man dead inside me. 

The pike and javelin advances, they seem to cheerfully nod; 
In wild thrusts and stabs, they expected to find their victory. 
A spear looks me in the eye, then throws full might that rod; 
But his is not the claim to make, to that man dead inside me. 

The infantry came out to greet us, we exchange pleasantries; 
Each man would call out to his god, his flag, and his family. 
And then comes the onslaught, the collision of these armies; 
I close my eyes momentarily, to see the man dead inside me. 

There he stands in the distance, his armour shining so bright; 
A blade in the scabbard, with another right through his body. 
I suppose I should know now, that this shall be my last fight; 
And I opened my eyes, but I still see the man dead inside me. 

My army withers away, and my men have breathed their last; 
I stand alone with the enemy, and their swords crying hungry. 
Kill me now, I wish to tell these men, but do not kill me fast; 
And in the slow strokes of steel, I have a man dead inside me. 

By: 
Sarthak Prakash

LEAKAGE

Eons ago, in the times of yore,
Lived a master with his disciples four.
Our legends were their present in that age,
Where lived the four students and the great sage.

On a day like any other, beneath the gleaming sun,
The sage called to his students, appears only one.
“I come father; alone, as my brothers are asleep.”
“Then work; alone, to preserve their slumber deep,
Fetch two panfuls of water daily from Hightop Hill,
But remember, my son, not one drop must you spill.”
Unknown to the disciple, there was that one flaw,
The sage has holed the pan, and such that none saw.
For ten days and nights, the first toiled and worked;
But then always a few drops would seep into the Earth.
Disgusted and defeated; he gave up just after day ten,
And left for further penance, not to be heard of again.
“He was an escapist.” very sagely pointed out the sage,
“You can’t escape; not from this world, not in this age.”

He sent out the second whilst the others slept,
But the secret of the holed pans he still kept.
For twenty days and nights, the second worked;
Bu always a few drop would seep into the Earth.
With patience and perseverance, located the hole,
And promptly repaired it, to make the pan whole.
“Not everything could be modified to suit you.”
cried out the sage, and so the second left too.

The third came, more nervous than confident,
Took the sage’s permission and away he went.
For thirty days and nights, there he worked;
But always a few drops seeped into the Earth.
He thought no one knew, and he kept a secret,
But the sage always knew, so he did not let;
The third disciple stay any longer. And told
“Nothing is hidden from the eyes of the world.”

The last came with sleep still in his eyes,
But quite aware of escape, change and lies.
For days, month and years, toiled and worked;
Bu always a few drop did seep into the Earth.
He planted seeds all along his path of walking,
And flowers bloomed as the pan continued leaking.
“Well done, to realize the situation’s potential,
derive from the problem, a well-derived credential.
To make the best use of your self and surroundings,
Is the fruit and moral of all the world’s teachings.
and that is all I can tell you, Oh great student.”
And with that repartee, right away the sage went!

Eons ago, when their present may be our times of yore,
Lived the great disciple, who learned from people four.
You can never escape, just as much you can never mutate,
You can never hide, and yet the very best you could make;
If only to use all your resources, and never lose your wit,
You will proudly lead the world, and not just be lead by it!


By:
Sarthak Prakash

An Obtuse Angel

Graffiti skies seem far too distant, an angel nearly naked without wings;

Heaven rejects, quite barely reflects; and its Hell that acceptance brings.

A decision made, without the faculties of choice - freedom is never free;

Evil shall embrace the child of scorn, the angel who would rather not be.

Priority corrupted, propriety confused, an angel then succumbs to doubt;

Barred are the doors to Heaven, and just as heartlessly, Hell reaches out.

Mortification may be masked as mercy, amnesty accompanied by abuse;

An offer hardly ever meant to oblige, an angel who just could not refuse.

Each breath reeks of sin - somewhere, somewhat, an angel somehow fell;

Heaven’s outcast is wretched, and condemned to the many curses of Hell.

The divine be damned, when wilting whites wane amidst a beastly black;

Conceived courtesy cosmic conflict, is the angel who could not turn back.

Deserted by discretion – if unable to stay, an angel yet unwilling to leave;

Heaven learns to punish, and in reciprocation, Hell administered reprieve.

As a testimony from torment, deliberating against those afraid to commit;

Promoting a sense of prejudice unbiased, the angel who would not submit.

With wisps of wile, then tendrils of tact - accommodate an angel aberrant;

Heaven could believe elsewise, and rightfully, but Hell is astutely adamant.

Distorted, distracted, distended; psyched beyond these confines of regret;

Amidst those that struggle to remember, is this angel who could not forget.

The renegade will resist the rigours of religion - an angel immune to belief;

Heaven shall then cry tears of tribulation, and Hell ought to celebrate grief.

The want of a faith without even believing, is more impulsive than implied;

Exploiting the potence of every shadow, is an angel who shall not confide.

Alone, and in more than just every sense of the word - an angel set apart;

I really ought to have expected the otherwise, rather than blame my heart.

Struggling to look beyond the obvious, even beneath the supposedly true;

Searching within, eyes forced shut, an angel who would find none but you.

By:

Sarthak Prakash