The Word for Writers

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LIMBO

Somewhere between dusk and dawn inexperienced,
I lost my footing and fell into limbo-

I lost the innocence of hope and goodwill
I discovered the portals to unending emptiness-

By chance,
I noticed cynicism and distrust riding the winds of change
Stealing my only source of joy
Unending belief in human goodness-

I caught a glimpse that stuck in my mind
Images of despair without relent
The terrifying eternity of hopelessness accepted,
I saw the cheerless misery of humourless souls -

In the bleariness
I noticed how pain vainly expiated its bitterness
Upon the masses huddled in compassionate unison
All lost, accepting futility as an end to exploit-

I felt the cold, cold clasp of bone-chilling unrelenting evil,
Of beginnings so ancient as to be immovable by frail human emotions. I saw souls in chains of despair so staunch they lack lift
Bedraggled humanity in supervised confusion-

Joys long expiated are plastered on flustered steeliness of ice carved visages,
Till even the smile of ludicrous humanness lacks warmth
A cold snakes’ tongue flicking mindlessly through carved mouths of lost emotions-

Fatality gliding like forbidden condemnation through living dreamscape of unending misery-

The purified air clogs the lungs,
The blue skies blind the eyes,
The lush greenery is uninvitingly beyond reach,
Silent ghouls and pale ghostly figments
Interchangeably dwell by night and day
In places so quiet the silence weighs heavy-

Sterile purity of filthiness beyond imagination-

A world beyond worlds in situ
Strangeness so common it is unnoticeable,
Pervasiveness so commonplace the contrary is rejected,
Wickedness so inbred it has ceased to horrify,
Till itself it defines morality-

Morality so appropriate in its inappropriateness, it is riveting-

Riveted minds held between vice and grinding torment,
Till mindless and emptied out,
Empty vases of loneliness inconceivable drift along,
Out of touch, unable to reach out-

Here was no laughter,
Just the carved smile plastered on emotionless faces,
No warm hands clapping, just clutches in the darkness of the devoid,
Cold, cold, coldness, till cold burns like fire,
Fire that burns till the very core ceases to exist-

Bitter landscapes of refined pain,
Pain as an art form
Perfected in the crucible of ire
Ire at the very essence of life and being
Burning rage, raging uncontained
Torching to destroy every and anything in its path
Fire that taints and contaminates
Leaving only bitter ashes of despair in its path-

These landscapes gripped in unrestrained death grip
Wrangled to its knees
Choked and left breathless
Heaving with quiet desperation, waiting
For a final blow of unexpurgated corruption-

Purity turned on its stomach
Till purity is turned into contaminating filth
Poison in layers of atmospheres
Hanging like old draperies seen yet not noticed
Taking away all the beauty with its avulsion-

Silent tears frozen on desperate landscapes
Of faces lacerated by pain ingrained and accumulated
Till these layers of pain have assumed definitive shape
Coatings of placed anguish over layered time and again
Till pain and quite desperation have assumed a face-

A face sculpted through sustained anguish
Over contorted backgrounds of grotesque grimness.
These faces are set, they lack emotional volition;
Ashen and fallen-

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