A Walk down the hallway...

Here walking down the hallway,
wearing casts, weighed down by the mask...
The little yellow glitter of the gloomy lamp,
shining blood-like, dull and ominous...

The limbs, all bleeding, buckling under the tales,
stories of happenings, unknown there in gargoyle
guarded homes...

Standing erect, inspite of cuts and bruises,
inspite of the swollen wounds, oozing liquids,
devil's own. Satanic pain searing through the body,
and a darkness consuming the long hallway,
and yet, walking down the hallway...

The chilling silence, and the echo of footsteps,
driving sanity away, along with the gaze, into that distance...
And down that hall, yet, with all earnest attempts,
succeeding to stand up yet again, after a failed attempt
to catch back the fast losing sound.

Once stood up,
the walk continues,
as if it never stopped,
with a dying yellow light of a candle;
and dark distance to traverse, that
in darkness remains...

Karthik Adithya Singaraju

The Kid with mismatched gloves...

I am a kid, a little one at that,
with a pair of mismatched gloves,
and a cap, tad smaller than my scalp.

I tried to do away,
be done with whatever I had to,
with my lunatic rant,
but then again, couldn't help...

I wear an overlarge sweater,
which protects my insides,
from a cold place I got to survive.

I am just a guy, with a torn jeans,
unsure which way to go, to make it fit right.
I tell you, things are distasteful,
and they freak people out.

But then again, I figured,
in my clumsy movements,
there lied what Emily tried to describe,
before she died.

You know, it is very funny,
that after all this time,
while I tried to figure what is wrong,
on the outside,
it turns, it was my turn,
to push it all aside.

Move away, lock in the corners,
warm in their cold comfort,
huddled, where I could meditate,
and there wouldn't be any bug,
or even a beautiful butterfly,
feeding on the sack of fungus,
rich and ripe.

Then again,
I was just a kid from some corner,
with mismatched gloves,
noone would ever try...


© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Where it never snows...

There goes the carrion cries, ever elegant...
And thence the vulture,
the monster scavenging upon the passed...
And there goes the wild albatross,
flying over the horizon,
and the seagulls' crying,
bidding a warm farewell to the sun,
who leaves, having finished his day's work...
The peacock is flaunting its hue,
and the owl waking up...

All in their place,
but a young flightless penguin...
In the rocks of tropics rejected,
searches hopelessly for snow,
and the warmth of its cold...

Little does he know,
tropics are empty,
and he is there,
flightless,
where it never snows...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju