When thin streaks of wispy clouds trail across my azure mind,
In fair weather, I sit to write,
filling my pen with lovely words.
Inside, I tread upon flowery pathways—
angels begin to arrive,
uncertain in whose golden attire
truth must emerge.
I close my eyes in pleasant thought:
the mother, aware of her buds’ potential—
and I, of my art.
Let my name be engraved in golden letters
on the temple rising within the heart.
To satiate the self, just for now,
I delight in the radiant face of her.
Howl!
Two sorrowful eyes stare at me,
blood dripping from their broken orbs.
On deeper gaze—
a skeletal hand pleads for mercy, for life.
But no—
to go deeper is to stick one’s head in the oven.
This is the art of a desperate age.
Peace is delusion.
The subconscious smoulders with fury.
This is the age of war.
I bite my pen.
I must try again.
.
Tamali Neogi
Picture Nick Victor
.