I’m standing in a Gothic Cathedral with
its arches, pillars and stained-glass windows,
comprehending how Lilliputian and inconspicuous
I am. All my life I dreamt of power, control and fame,
but I now realize that I’m simply a journeyman looking
for an upset. When you’re young, you dream
of swords, shields and combat, and usurping the
throne of glory, but the years teach you that
victory is an illusion; love only finds unsuspicious minds,
and sex is an addiction that leaves you brain-dead.
A life once filled with hope, now reduced to viewing images
on a screen.
A life once filled with dreams, now reduced to eating
bad pizza on a dirty bed and then smoking in the bathroom.
A life once filled with lucid thoughts, now reduced to
aggressively masturbating to painful dreams of women rejecting me.
I’m a cuck; I’m a creep, so, spare me the fucking pity.
I don’t need your honey-coated false-sympathy about how things
will get better; about silver linings and rainbows after the storm;
about the chorus being beautiful after the off-key verse.
I’m looking out of my apartment window at two in the morning,
and a dim lamp illuminates the walk underneath; dust swirls
and settles everywhere, and there’s a siren in the distance
reminding me that a crab only scuttles for awhile
before the daunting hand of fate spears it.
Some post-rock song plays on the Macintosh,
the lights in this lonely room and the spinning fan
only heighten my desperation,
I see a time machine in the form of a glowing hourglass
filled with the fabric of the cosmos beckoning
me to touch it, go back and set things right,
I reach for it, but some invisible wall prevents me,
I punch the wall, barge into it,
kick it, scream,
and collapse in pain, and then assume a fetal
position while ashen snowflakes fall
from the ceiling.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2020)