my body is a battlefield
of wounded soldiers trampled – a bright blood red
of wounds that never heal
of quests unfulfilled;
the world spins on its own crooked axis,
reaping off prophets filled with dreams – shards of glass with razor, ragged edges
who sell their souls to the webbed devil
two-faced gremlin lurking in the shadows of ruin.
they die twice over, once on their
immaculate machines, their
ennui-filled voids brimming with the throng of the
& again in their small, rented apartments,
death-sticks & hasheesh, weeping to no end-
their muffled cries echo around the chamber of lies,
their shrines of jilted nightmares,
of induced catatonia, slicing their throats when they sleep.
aches in certain places:
the blood coagulates, courses through,
a steady heartbeat with a flitting death wish;
a forest brimming with
forgotten lovers & the gutted remains of samurais
their blades marking the end of rebellion.
the crow gets its vengeance,
hovers over corpses, with its sleek, metal body
as my automated limbs write away
picking up empty words, phrases, declarations
that lull the ravaged towards
a barren wasteland, where hybrid legions sprout,
the vegetation reeks of betrayal,
& the ocean, bleeds.
the trickster lion slips a dose of compliance in my daily coffee,
& I drink, till my skin is soaked in the shame of mediocrity:
he lurks around the corners of my mirrors, dripping pus & entrails,
flooding my vision with the horror of tomorrow.
rests & hunts & guts & lies
upon my chest, heavy with love for unbloomed stories
they fester & wither,
snaking around like the curse of a gargoyle,
i had sworn to behead in my lifetime.
Wildly passionate about poetry and cinema. Maddened by the idea of beauty.
Steeped in bleak nihilism & idealistic hope at the same time, Debopriyaa believes that art, & only art, has the power to heal, disrupt, & transform.