Who is the most anxious of them all?
(An ill-thought, incomplete, bathetic version of a poem — an appropriate metaphor for my current, brazen state of mind. I shall work on this someday and make it better. Till then, up here it stays. My first unchecked lyric.)
You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror,
A living thing, but dead inside.
Killed in the battle between wrong and right.
Your eyes widen in fright,
Your face — a pasty disguise,
Your soul’s turmoil pours through
The cracks in your smouldering visage.
The spectacle too horrid to stand,
You close your lids, let the mind go blank.
You woke up after 9 days,
Charred, black plains all around.
You rose and started walking in this heat,
Until a palace called Pandemonium you found.
In its great big hall you met,
The fiend prince and his best,
Asked he why you dared to come,
“Which sin, which damnation; of you it does not become.”
“I know not where I am,” you say,
“I know not who you are,
“You resemble a large ram.”
“Impertinent fool,” screamed the fiend,
“See you not these jet-black masts, these blood red flags;
These luminaries soaked in spite and hate?
Know you not their King, the rightful heir,
The almighty evil, the prince of despair?”
You startle and stumble,
In the darkness of the truth, you mumble,
“I am in Hell.”
Upon which, you crumble.
“Fret not, little pest,” says he,
“You are not a welcome guest.”
“You must leave immediately,”
“And never set foot in this place.”
“For you are the virtuous, not the despised,”
“You pollute this haven, you are not its respite,”
“You were not sent for, you were not dragged down,”
“There is only one explanation for your presence, at which I frown.”
“This Hell is of your own making,” said the crown.
“It is a lie, a trick; it is conjecture,
It is not yours to keep,
And I demand that you leave.”
“How I got here, I do not know,” you say,
“I’ll leave, kindly show me the way.”
“All I remember is looking at a mirror of mine,
Thinking why the light had stopped to shine.”
“I recall a throbbing pain in my head,
Its beating heart — a brick-black-blue,
Not for a moment were we ever apart,
This living nightmare of mine; the one that brushed the stars from view.”
“That is all well and good,” said the fiend,
“The more nightmares, the merrier.
Nastier will the World’s end be,
If people like you let them reign free.”
“If you were to toss them away,
Just a glance, then let them go astray,
Then you would not have been this way,
Not once under Hell’s great sway.”
“Never you mind,” bellowed the fiend,
“Stay here as long as you like.
Hell sweet home, as far as the eye can see.
Once you settle in, you need never go out.”
You seem to weigh the matter in your head,
And then fumble into doubt.
“What about the sunset, the orange trees?
Everything I left behind, the smell of the breeze?
What about the faces I love and have,
Who are to every wound, the salve?”
“I cannot leave them,” you say out loud,
“I cannot see them as would a passing cloud.
I shall leave this soothing, tempting hell behind,
I shall rise up and I shall fight.”
No sooner had you finished saying this,
Than a voice began to speak.
It fell out of your little heart,
And slowly started to peak.
“Wake up you didn’t fall from grace,” it said,
“Return to the land you left, that is no disgrace.
The way back will be shown from within,
The night is strong, but you will win.”
“Walk up the slope,
Hold on to your hope,
Walk far and free,
This is a dream-reverie.”
“There is a long way to go,
It’s somewhere over the rainbow.
But there is a destination, a proverbial pot of gold,
There is warmth to be gotten, this is a passing cold.”
Its words set your heart aglow,
You made the lofty climb,
And at the top a wind caught you,
Dropped you home by dinnertime.
