By Devbala Smitha
Dark spaces
Like the dark damp soil
Holds safe, life,
From the bloodshed in the moores.
I be a seed stamped down:
A new breath, a new life.
Ideally.
But what of me?
I die in the bloody red-blood
shed in a blink.
I drown and dissolve.
It’s them -
With deeds, double-faced, Wounding and cutting
While I'm drained,
Healing and creating.
Fed up, I am.
Heading to a void -
Blamed and burned.
Ah! To Suffer!
To suffer, without a sound.
To suffer (scream)
Without (scream)
A Sound (scream)
(Scream) (inside) ...
Inside.
Burning.
Turning my insides
Into ashes.
But, I could be born again-
From the last of the ashes.
It chills me to think,
What deeds I have borne.
What deeds could I have borne!
And the journey never stops.
Cursed souls,
Crushing me under their feet,
Oblivious to the pains they cause,
Creeping on my soul,
Unbothered,
Ignorant of the pains
And the lost footprints left behind.
Sometimes I wonder
How far they can go,
Before they drown in their deeds.
Before my dead dry body lays there,
Unnoted by the days gone by.
I was bound and tied.
And burnt and raped.
Humans? Who?
Them? NO!
Tore me, ripped me apart,
Sank their fangs into me.
Blood oozed and they sucked it out,
And left me drenched, to die.
Oh, I died!
And you.
You saw it all,
and remained Speechless.
You saw me burn to death.
Yet I'm alive, lifeless.
My neck strangled
in suffocation.
Only a breath escaped
Barely beating,
My heart heard a hum
Of death, impending.
The End. The exit.
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