Poetry - Tricolour Prism

They want him strong. So he is.
He was born that way. With an armour.
As much a defense against the evil world
as a bristling symbol of aggression.
They always want the strongest one.
The one with the finest, thickest armour.
And so they get him.

As if the armour were not enough
he cocoons himself in a shell.
Marooned by various hues of wards;
Anger, ignorance, impatience, unconcern.
They flit about, cavorting, enticing and enchanting.
No shell, nor ward nor armour.
For they are born strong enough.

He sees them and opens his shell
and casts his wards open.
They are always fast. No armour.
So he too discards it and follows them.
Magic is made amidst a bonfire,
into which armour and shell and strength are fed,
Newfound lightness lifts him and his spirit.

But remember they always wanted him strong.
The one with the finest, thickest armour.
He cannot be light, yet strong.
Cannot make magic while still being encumbered
by shell, armour, wards and strength.
So he learns; Magic always takes its toll.
So what if he gets hurt in the process....

Thus begins regeneration.
Every prick and scratch, every cut and stab
adds layers of callus over time.
Out of scabs and scars is born
the second armour.
Stronger than any armour he was born with,
for this one was learnt; tempered by violence and honed by hurt.

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Posted By: Balachandhran S - Category: Poetry

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Yesterday again...

December 17th 2008 11:21

Yesterday again I was lost,
lost without hope of being found.
Lost without smoke or fire, without fog or frost,
never wanting to be found and bound.
Blissfully unaware of time's cost,
spinning in somebody else' world round and round.

Yesterday again I was in torture,
breathless, witless and fearful of what's in store.
Stagnant myself but racing to somebody else' future.
Stirred, shaken but still whittling towards the core.

Laughing when being asked to,
Simmering, pouting and crying on cue.
Even ruminating about what he is to say or do
and beginning for his misgivings to rue

Riffling remorselessly through his life,
sniffling, smiling, misting up but not ready to give up.
Its all in there - every smile every strife.
Conceived of wood and with ink given life and lit up.

Again Yesterday,
I held it in my hands - that in which I am still lost,
drowned but not wanting to break for air,
floating, diving and living through the ink.

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Posted By: Balachandhran S - Category: Poetry

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Few and Far Between - I

June 24th 2008 09:13

Oh my life, See,

The unborn Sun’s kiss with the clouds,
The silently chirping noisy birds,
The grass beneath, adored by dewy beads,
The calmly prancing handsome steeds.

Oh my breath, See,

The newborn Sun cradled in the sky,
Its crimson hue spreading well nigh,
The bloom of flowers, enchantingly shy,
Their petals visited by the winged spy.

Oh my thought, See,

The sea lit up with an aura, looking serene,
The fisher, one second dive, the other preen,
The mighty waves under the foamy white caps’ reign,
As they wear their billowy blue over the grimy green.

Oh my heart, See,

The becoming fear in the eyes,
Of the young prancer, roan,
As it most bewitchedly eyes,
The ball in the sky that shone.

Oh my angel, See,

The Sun’s lesser cousin’s dwindling far away,
The pale smuggler still visible in the newborn day,
The light spreading towards the clouds to disband their grey,
The grasses and trees, for the wafting breeze, in sweet sway.

Oh my love, See,

My hair tousled, as is my mind,
Which waits no longer to leave behind,
This subtly beautiful scene and to find,
You as the cloud and I as the Sun, in the dawn of happiness, blind.

Inamorata,

These are but seen,
In times, few and far between,
Come, let us feign,
That what was has never been,
And live out our lives, in these times, few and far between.

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Posted By: Balachandhran S - Category: Poetry

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