Post by Chetna K.

​It begins with a sudden dissent against the sun, A secret vow taken under the delicacy of one, To remain porous is like sealing the bond in blood, in pouring hell. leaves drink the flood till the roots deny, when it pours, it pours from the sky. So, in the bruised violet evening I looked up the sky. I starved my own veins of the hope of a chirpy night. I whistled aloud, in hopes for harmony. Instead, was left with my echo through the rain-sins singing horoscopic symphony. ​Such is the alchemy of the desperate. The fleshy green calcifies into thunderous obsidian, The soft, gentle palm solidifies to beastial spear. The temple calm viking to eye impetuous soldier. And thus, a creature of cold armor takes birth. Cultures eradicate. I'm no longer a garden. If anything, a cathedral of thorns. ​Look at that rain, audacious with exhausted sorrows, Now sliding off the texture of my armor. Once, a mere drop would have bled horrifically into my marrow, What a shame what a grace! Ah. ​Well here is the frozen, terrible majesty of the empire, I swallow the graveyard- damp. I dive to the centre of the abyss. Clear and no melody. It's serene to find no noise, no chirps; simply nothing. Utterly and tragically indestructible. Nothing can breach the haunted high rise walls. Nothing can disturb the still water I drown in I really laugh at my despair, oh to drown in a pond with no flare! ​Yet, a loud terror festers beneath, When the storm finally settles, and the horizon bleeds that ombré light. How do I gaze upon a dawn I am not engineered to survive? What if the sky bleeds dry, and a gust of wind demands to be felt? What if tomorrow begs for a yield, and finds nothing but my rusty blade beneath? What if I drown now in my sorrows with nothing worth my belief? My shell is absolute, but obsidian is rumored to be brittle, And the shield worn too long is more of a cage to flee from. ​I fear my impending doom when the shadows finally break, (Or is it?) For oh, my deepest horror of this eternal crypt is To build an empire my own agony wouldn't dare penetrate Make no mistake for the fortress, for, it will sculpt a corpse that shall never bloom again. hence, the horror. The only way out is through. With love, Chetna K.