Wednesday, 16 May 2018

A Thousand Lives and A Thousand Solitudes

I don't think it likes
most of what remains on its skin.

I have seen it sin
and I have seen it cry;
but most times it hurdles
both its knees in fear.

Behold - held ajar a verse
at the tips of its fingers.

It memorizes the foreign language
from a century dead and gone;
like numbers, the years, it remembers,
like the embedded age of grandfather trees.

For many times I witnessed it
clasping a tight grip
on its threaded misery
that is left undone;
left missing,
and it stays content only when they're gone.

So be it - it halted the Sun
and it is its claim: to brand new names
brand new lives,
brand new solitudes.

Monday, 30 April 2018

Prunes

Poison sits at the tip of your tongue.
like a toddler gun you swerve into the menace
of high flags, and surrender your home.
The banners weigh of rain,
and clouds no longer bring shade.
The equinox murders its own flames
with the spit of divided trust.
And there you sit
at a table of the ocean fish
you had no mercy for.
Now the sea rots in all shades of your name,
the trees cry and tumble with their roots
crawling to the surface like resiliant children.
Books now written invisible-
accounted to the blind reading of numbers
as they grow deeper to their own shame.

And yet,
you wear the death of another
as a neckline accessory-
you don in red shades of the dawn,
your eyes with the pinted blue of the barren sky
and you are blind.
Not to the world,
but to your own reflection. 

28 April 2018
Neila.

Thursday, 19 April 2018

That's Amore

(c) Haziq Johari

"Love feels very apologetic now but it's not anyone's fault; I saw the wind blow translucent curtains and there a stood a figure. A concept? I was ashamed, it did not have a face. It only had sharp claw-like nails, and skin like new warm cement. The nicotine in its eyes had kept me awake for hours- only long before the tar took over my lungs. No story made sense ever since.
And nor did love. If love was such a tug of war it did not have to suffocate me so much. Why isn't love ever the kind that holds your hand with all its tender traces of God on its palms? Why hasn't time made ends meet for things to unfold, over and over again, until I am bruised and broken and damned? Cest la vie, says a movie. I love you, says a song."

The weeds must have overgrown by now. Many things become vague but a slight hint of light makes love an exception. I relied on the man with the best voice I know. He had wisdom painted in blossoms of both his eyes and his skin ever so warm. He looks at me like I've known him for such a long time, but all I wished for at that moment was to know him a long time more.

I'd say he's my best-kept secret like all things kept at home. He feels like a lot of metaphors but I do not dare colour him in shades of love all too common. I have forgotten the fire, the tears, and the burden. The love I've always known is catastrophic, messy and self-destructive. Sure, in all its glory, love does take you high above the clouds. But since the morning graced me with the best set of fingers to come home to, love has been my best friend.
Neila Maryam © , All Rights Reserved. BLOG DESIGN BY Sadaf F K.