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

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