Was it on a long time that sat I on the iron rod again - not cold nor dry too dry was it - did my clothes keep my skin from touching the grey surface anyway. So may I ask, "did I sit on it actually?"
Have I another story to tell you, you my lady was I born out of, some things to recall and reconcile with. You, my fair madame, you whose blood stained my body so, and stained am differently now;
Have I another song to sing, some curves to swerve over -
must I not stumble upon me feet for will you be crushed on the other side.
You see, oh mother of mine! Was I no greater an observer in your lap than I am now with thighs barely covered. So can I ask if I may return to thy arms - a place, an abode defying heaven of your own aftermath, a safe sanctum for the whole of me?;
Have I also got some sights to sketch, all that I saw. You won't close thy eyne, will thee?
'Twas a spectacle for one to see. I admit that I became a stranger to blindness.
An hour as holy as that has not been for me to live, let alone moments of my own from those seconds in my solitary solitude.
Here my heart has a story now. Oh mother, look how restive it is, hopping inside to shake the child out of me!
What story you ask. Oh you do, and 'tis astonishment I read thy query with for hath I never seen thy lips judder with such passion afore. I will tell thee. But will thou tell me more.
A cliche must hath it become - my rope of hirsute coir -
'Tis rope tied tight across half of the pavement which do my feet trudge past day after day now.
Oh mother! but does it not kill, does it not scratch my palms like my nails do, does
keep me company when against thy hearth, am I only lying bare upfront the fire. Indeed, let the flames gobble me up entirely. I can have someone to play with me like a child.
Why such rope in my mentions now? Why such dead fibre out of my fingers?
Alas! you ask, and you ask again and again.
What my mood, this infernal space of my stars of virgo - so distorted to bear novelty of a new constellation just born! What my tongue to speak of the harsh, what my tongue to taste the ugly, and what my tongue to call thy name! Why so you ask. And thou ask again and again and again! May I persevere for a little more time, only if thee allow me.
Alack! shall I cut my tongue away, oh creator of mine at the second place?
Lackaday! Lackaday! Doom doom! Must doom betide me. What the heck did I say? Were thee mine and mine to call. Heck! Is the tannoy not sweet in sound anymore. Did thou change thy name? You may tell me;
Were thou so beauteous - an angel in brown skin just as I am. Fairy were thee not to me, and oh how I love thee for thy pure heart, thy hardbitten heart harried one to many times by the other hands that never sought me hands, and yet, still a virgin Mary of grace. What beauty, oh no mother! What this beauty thy wear! 'tis a sledgehammer to slaughter all my poison. But alas! did I give it to thee?
Am I saying something and biding time - not a soupcon of my hope in me to save thee.
Indeed, I am speaking. Do you hear me?
'Tis cough that judders my lungs, derelict is my throat. Do not come close. I will be quiet soon. So on and on will I go; on and on I go. Do you hear me?
Just after a gentle shower you see a rainbow,
While going through the woods in cavorting auras,
The birds are all so friendly wherever you go,
In every tree they sing you a chorus.
How rash and crass art my words today! So perfidious to betray you at any moment.
I wonder if you have been listening at all. You won't like it if may I tell. But again, do you hear me?
Up on the roof, my feet naked on the concrete time to time, I shook right beside the rope again, and unlike the quondam hours where I won't let it touch my hair, I let it brush past me skin. It is rough.
Down underneath the sky cerulean no more, but cerise of this eventide, my throat aches from all the attempts I made to scream. Aha! came not a word to me.
In between if I hover, a place of my penchant, will a limbo remind of a nameless narrator who spoke for an hour and a half -
gory kith cum birth of that rope in his playhouse of no dolls; he will soon bestow the legacy with pride.
And on and on he spoke, and second after second I allowed, a whisper right into my heart.
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