For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror

As I stood there where the wind chafed my chapped skin, a howl of mourning played on the reeds of plumbing. Wind who is a friend, is cruel at times. She insists on playing off-note keys of the broken piano and pries open the closets of my bosom. And then out come tumbling: the shrieks of laughter, the wafts of sunday brunch, the moans, groans and sighs. All sights and sounds of human existence. Hurriedly I shoo her off closing the doors on reminiscences painful. Fire had been their family member. A recalcitrant child, admonished and often neglected, whose rage had burnt down my contacts human. Rain is the cruelest visitor of all, sprouts life, on my barren facade. Every little root tearing into me, undressing me for the voyeuristic world to peep into me. But I have begun my descent via the narrow stairs into the cold darkness of the basement where they say the kindred spirits of my kind reside. A few moments more for I let the pariahs w

I know I shall meet my end by the stomp of a boot leaving a smear of me on the carpet, a reminder of my kind or perhaps a forgotten one on the soles of a shoe. But untill then I savour this upturned view of humanity. These hollow, empty and painted vessels, spilling their screams, cantankerous cacophony of their wrath. For bear I not, a testimony: of their effluence, of blood and sputum, of the foetuses unwanted, of the corpses rotting of the tyranny of stench, and their exhaustion The entropy of fear that they could not hold behind their walls. A token of savageness that they could not contain beneath their cities. The pantheon of their false gods, that always seek light and in darkness abandon the teeming forms of life. Of the faith that desires uniformity of shapes. Am I not that chaotic shape in their manicured spaces? My flailing arms and legs a reminder of death in the mirth of their life's embraces. 

The pen was stuck and the ink congealed. Blood was entangled in the cobweb of apprehensions. Paper was a rough barren landscape, unpliable by the ideas, impenetrable by the seducing pen. Within a cocoon, they reside, of flesh and blood. Inside of me and independent of me. However hard might I try, no dangling threads can I find, to unravel the life and to disentangle the poetry.