A Preacher

By Atraiu Gupta

Welcome dear reader(s). Myself, a voice of incandescence insignificance. I belong to the soul of my sorrow, as my sorrow i behold, in my soul. Remain I do, as thy guide across muted sublimes of the realms, that do not speak for themselves. For the places left untold, unheard, unremembered— today I take stance, and plead their case of unreminiscence.

we do not get to speak our own tales; all that we remain are the figments of imagination of some shelled body.

look for once who we are,

for there lies a lot beyond what meets

the blissful naked eye.

the stained souls of the depraved shells;

with airborne thoughts, they ascend over the bodies of ours;

delighted with the tale of youth and age—

their footfalls tread across our shedding skin,

as they wander within our breaths

to cure their soul with their senses—

and their senses with their soul.

afraid of letting a heart feel,

sleepwalking souls arrive at our doorstep,

to sink within their immoral morals,

and to delve within the cavernous minds of theirs

to feel what they left unfelt, and to reveal

themselves to themselves; a stranger brought alive

to burn with a heart, that remains not theirs,

to think of thoughts, that remains not theirs,

to commit sins that belong not to them,

to be someone who they ought to be not.

with these hideous fires of passion, burning over their branded lips,

and a mound of plastic wrapped over their limbs,

and the wrinkling lines over their forehead,

shining beneath the stationary sun;

they enter our threshold and inhale us in.

and with each breath of air, suck in our essence they do,

to concoct a trivial tragedy—

deep underneath the kingdoms of their false minds.

our blood flows from one realm to another,

yet along with it, we neither cross the boundaries of mankind’s mind,

nor the abundance of whispers that portray our tale.

we choose to believe that only we carry ourselves, yet all that we remain, are the flaking phrases of a soul’s angelic ministry.

the tides of time weep over the sinister wreaths of wraights,

and from the drops plummeting towards another story left untold,

arises an echo; the sluggish pulse of joy that beats in us forevermore.

wrap we do, in our fingers the threads of time, as gaze we do—

over not a night, but a generation and another and another…

and their twisted tales remain wrought in the cocoons of our mind.

our limbs fail not, nor do our senses rot—

return we did, from the slumbers of stagnant passions

just to listen to the squalors of us,

narrated by those, who ate our own mind and drank our own soul;

those, who remain haunted within the memories—

of passions left unlived, and temptations left empty;

those, who walked inwards towards us—

to find a solace from the truthful lies of their life;

those, who we beckoned never, yet reach us they did

and leave us they did, with views seen from

a half dead eye and a hollowed orb—

along with a mouthful of forevers.

and when all that remains of us are the bricks and stones

and forget the sleeping souls do, of our body, our bones

crawl we do, from the barbed tongues of faithful liars

across the muted mutilated oceans,

in hope of finding our home. and when a mere thought murders our existence, degenerate we do, into hideous mannequins of the life’s ocean—

one, without a shore— when we are told…

through words that are not our own,

and acerbic voices that should have us never known.

By Atraiu Gupta