Duality

 

Something sleeping

in the walls.

Its soft breathing

and heartbeat falls, it snores,

and mumbles - a gentle rumble

in whispers - swishing words

pour through the pores,

quietly landing

during the lonely hours.

Silken moans

to entice me over.

 

Something awakening

in the brickwork,

the paper peeling thin,

cracks forming, crumbling.

Dust on the floor,

dead skin carpeting the halls.

A fierce buzzing,

vibrating, screaming?

during the lonely hours.

The wall, resonating

with me,

its heartbeat raising,

the moans call louder.

 

Something slamming

a beat into the concrete.

A rhythmic, rumbled creep,

like pounding, marching feet.

The dust heaps up higher,

a crumbled mountain

of debris lays twitching,

shifting at my feet.

 

A raised heartbeat...

 

mine.

 

As the clock

on the wall

chimes...

 

A scream

 

echoes through the walls.

 

Leave. Leave. Leave.

 

The clearing words of a fairytale,

told in the cleaving voice

of a bad dream.

 

A thud.

 

A thud.

 

A third thud -

and all crashes.

The walls fall, and I see

myself staring back.

A smile on my face.

As I wave away the static.

 

And I hear a humming.

A slow wave. As all my pain drifts

like cobwebs in the wind.

 

I blink

 

and

 

nothing

 

as the world fades to black

and I hear a heartbeat fading,

another is beating back

louder with every awakened breath.

This city is a graveyard

 

The scent of roasted cumin blends

with crushed cardamom,

to sounds of sizzling ghee.

I walk the rain-soaked concrete,

hearing laughter, seeing smiles of glee.

Saris and jewellery, colour, texture.

I bite down on the sweet square of barfi,

fizzing my senses as I walk these golden streets.

 

“This city is a cemetery”, or so some cry.

So many remains left buried.

Ghosts wander the pathways,

nothing good survives, old memories lie.

They decry that it is the delivery guy,

or the beggar sitting at the roadside.

They lie about the immigrants, the

cultural difference, claiming division.

I just think: What are you seeing?

This is a vibrant slice of life.

 

I wander the cobblestone lanes.

Peregrine falcons nesting for the night,

looming Cathedral spire glances down on me.

Guildhall standing crooked but proud,

as the moon hangs a tapestry of light,

wooden beams and history. I think:

I'm proud of this city. Where stories

have walked since the Romans

forged a path through the country.

 

“This city is a graveyard,” the naysayers proclaim,

filled with tombs where old memories remain.

Buried stories drift with the grain

of every torn page left to weather in the rain.

 

I think of the way a king

was found under a car parking space,

his place in history, a story fit for a king,

surely good enough for you and me?

And I think this isn't dead,

it's alive with mystery.

 

I pass the Clock Tower,

rife with crime at every hour,

according to the TikTok brigade.

Yet I see life meeting

and enjoying their time. Faces beaming,

not miserable and sour.

 

“This city is dead,” or so they shout,

feeding worms of doubt

with the hollow screams of lives unlived.

Decayed, a faded memory left to wither away.

Yet you haven't set foot here

in a decade or more, so how can you

see the beauty at our core,

when you stay from the light of day?

 

You miss every event, the social excitement,

the nighttime drinks, the daytime feasts,

the cultural exchanges of wonderful festivities.

The monumental moments of community

where we laugh, share,

and hold out hands that care,

loving instead of feigning despair.

Instead, you fester at home in bed,

writing angry posts about how our city is dead.

Questioning the dark

 

Love left me

questioning the dark,

screaming for answers,

then jumping as the answers

barked an echo in reply,

repeating my pleas

in increasing desperation,

deepening depression,

clawing intimidation.

 

It left me talking in riddles to the

shadows that don't talk back.

Wondering if anything

was real, or if this was all

just a trick of the dusk light.

Shivering as its cold fingers

touched my spine. Icicles

hanging over my heart.

Lying that I was fine.

 

Love left me

wandering darkened places.

My heart fell heavily

to the slaughterhouse floor -

still beating, pulsing, bursting, aching.

Sawdust and copper,

a splash of crimson on my canvas,

as I was flung against the wall,

flogged until my skin started to peel.

 

Then it dropped me.

A forest, no map or compass -

just the dirt under my torn feet,

and a sign saying “Don't pass.”

I staggered. I grasped

as thorny bushes grabbed

me back. I gasped as love

was just a horny demon

choking my last breath, for I couldn't

say the words I needed to lay to rest.

Lodged tight. Don't do that to me.

The words ripped out

of my gaping chest cavity:

To be, or not to be.

I was left questioning

my pencil-thin grip on reality.

 

Love left me

questioning my sanity.

And when it spoke. I heard it.

A whisper. It cursed.

It spoke in reverse.

I heard it. I froze.

In verse it whispered.

And I was lost

in the wilderness,

in the old wind that blows.

 

For this wasn't love,

but a trickster - a demon

portraying a light-giver.

A mimic, a spectre.

A song playing out of key.

And ice started to scrape

through my tar-like insides,

like the sound of that grinding tone,

as I gasped, I moaned to say what I'd tried

so hard to accept: This isn't love.

You are keeping me kept. A pet.

 

Love left me.

When I closed that door tight.

 

And I questioned the darkness.

For darkness always answered me

when I called her at night.

And her answer...

You will find a love

that sets your heart alight.