Filed under: abstract, death, fallen, life, love, poem, poetry, politics, religion, surreal, surrealism, transgressive
He Who Fell
His fall was complete
The day he tumbled down the cocoon
And found himself running
For the door. He imagined
Inside. Outside. Crossings.
The possibilities of a door.
He covered.
He was led to a world
Of tangled bodies. Criss-crossed.
Clinging onto the unknown other
Like abandoned copulations.
Like the corpse of the child
Left somewhere in the womb
Left somewhere, in their heart, too
Criss-crossed.
He was led into the world
Of a thousand children
Lying in all their tangled wombs.
As cocoons.
He, too, was a dead child
Lying in the comfort of the tangled wombs
Playing with his dead brethrens
Making balls of their dead flesh,
Throwing at each other
And on being hit, they turned red
In blood and shame, alike.
Then, on a very special night
Destiny wished
He tumbled down the cocoon
And was led into the world
Of tangled bodies. Criss-crossed.
And as his angst grew
He decided to take a stand
Against the rotting of his dead brethrens;
Against the world of tangled bodies;
Against the order of the world;
Against the fire engraved on their skins.
On a very special night
When destiny wished
And he tumbled down the cocoon,
On the other side of the tangled world
In a dusty barn, full of hay
A divine light was sprinkled
And a child was reaped out of no seeds.
Its mother took him in her arms and said –
“Babe, you’re so bright
My eyes might just burn staring at you.”
