Ode to the point of no return

The possessions that pass for life, so fragile
The good, the bad, the right, the wrong.
Dominion, humming a freedom song,
Envy, wearing the facsimile of a fake smile

Who, in a world ideal, shall stand aside?
Confession, lacking innocence but guilt too
Confrontation, self indulgent and childish too
Who is to win the beauty, to claim the pride?

Those who lay still, claiming aloud
To have raised the world from ashes?
Or those dancing amidst the crashes,
Holding still higher, heads that never bowed?

The path must have been hard to discern,
For who wished to reach beyond life
Have fallen into death, and are safe,
Singing ‘Ode to the point of no return’.

'Life Like That'

Anastase: Persuasion, Mr. Raynor, is a sickness. Tell me, now that you have managed to shove this idea down my head, do you still want to know if I’m French?
Raynor: That ship sailed, my boy, the moment you brought up that gun to my face. Why don’t we get down straight to what do you want to know.
Anastase: So I thought. You see, some wickedly stupid person in the past said “I would kill for a life like that”. And you, Mr Raynor, the one who could, took it up as a business opportunity. You wouldn’t care to blink in the moment before you kill the person I name.
Raynor: Right. Name anyone you want. I could get you the life of the president for heaven’s sake! The moment I entered this market, I knew I had to disappear first. I’m a ghost, lad! I’m not intimidated by people like you. Just imagine what I could do if I get out…
Anastase: … Alive? Ah! You roll me over ray. You don’t really believe that, do you? The life I want is yours. I’m going to be you. Unless you’re able to persuade me once again, Raynor will walk out of that door, but not you.
Raynor: Alright. Alright! You’ve got it all wrong. I’m no killer! I’m a psychologist, and this facility is in fact an experimental treatment centre for people like you, who are easily convinced to kill. The concept was built up nationwide to deal with terrorism at the root levels.
Anastase: Great beginning, Ray. You really are deeply affected off this disease, the persuasion thing. Go on though.
Raynor: We work with the patients’ accordance in the beginning, just to be sure of a plausible threat. Why do you think I would lie to you now?
Anastase: Well, because I told you to. Anyway, do you know how I got here today? I walked, 19 blocks, in the middle of the traffic. But the people out there are so… careful that I’m still safe and sound. The last four I walked with my eyes closed, from in between the park, but no one really gave a damn.
Raynor:  And you want control over them, right? You seek my life for power, for being able to give the people, who want it enough, someone else’s life. Am I Right?
Anastase: In the park, it was like no one else could see either. I wasn’t unable to speak, I was just waiting for them to ask. So, damn hell I want control, a controlled beginning.
Raynor: But you have tried that before, haven’t you? A new beginning sounds brilliant, but does it ever work?
Anastase: It doesn’t matter. I’m here to be you, to kill you. And then slowly, life by life, I’ll take them all. Anyone whose life can be lived better, by someone else, doesn’t deserve to live.
Raynor: Aren’t you listening to me? ‘Life like that’, this entire institution, is a disguise. Taking on someone else’s life is impossible. Even if you could accomplish something like that, every life would be tainted.
Anastase: I’m not looking for a giant white sheet; a few black patches will be just fine.
Raynor: No, it’s going to be worse than ever. You have tried to start new, right? You couldn’t create a better future knowing all the wrongs that you did. How do you expect my future and your past to blend in together?
Anastase: It can’t be. The brochure says, it’s the best a person can ever have.
Raynor: It’s a fake! No… put that gun down. You clearly need help. Every beginning you attempt, this way, will be fouled by something, if nothing else, by this conversation. This circle is inescapable for someone in your position, so strongly rooted….
Anastase: An ending… an ending could suffice for a healthy start. I cannot dream to run while I’m sleepwalking. I need to wake up. Wake up!
Raynor: We’re on the same page Anastase. Remember what I said about working with patients in accordance? I understand you’re absolutely right. Do it!
[Raynor takes the pistol off his hand, shoots him once again, in the chest.]
Raynor [on his cell phone ]: Persuasion, Ms. Desirae, is a sickness for most and a gift for those who can use it. Next time, maintain the protocols. Don’t let a person in just because he’s French, and make sure that he's here for someone else's life, not mine.

Denial

Persistence is not what I rehearse, for I do not breathe perpetuity. Is there no one left to defy me?

Change is not what I’ve seen, for in the dark I’ve forgotten the day. Can the sun not burn me?

Individuality is not what I practice, for I’m not me. Is there no one left for me to be?

Reflex is not what I rely on, for I am an uncanny response. Is there no emotion left unseen?

Repentance is not what I trust, for laughter is in the air. Is there no once left to deceive me?

Sanguinity is not what I want, for I’m a deeper vision. Is there no one left to disappoint me?

Redemption is not what I seek, for I haven’t sinned. Is there no one left to condemn me?

Stay

He’s where all the wicked reside.
He’s with who all the holy abide.
To his own will, a scarecrow, ruled still,
Defenseless, for the winds to kill.

Stay by him, stay by the night.
As a desire to remain shall fight
A wish for death to arrive
Discreet as he is, he is to come alive.

With his eyes up, and his face down,
A gaze and a smile born of a frown,
Dancing, dripping from beyond a past
Disappointing, forcing you not to last.

But, stay till the dawn, stay for the sight
Of him burning for you, of him burning bright,
Of the face in the wreath of smoke to come,
Of the face of what you are to become.

The Falling Castle of Glass

A solitary avenger, set to believe
Less in gracious lies than those who kill,
The awed truths; He, so naive
Shall do so at his peril.

As incredible is this last while,
And though he could deny to try
To forsake his castle of glass, fragile.
At no cost shall he try to deny

To ask himself for he’s so wise,
To stab his mind again and again,
From a deathlike slumber he shall rise,
Only to fall, and so forever remain.

How could he be the creator of disguise?
How the thoughts prevented from fantasy
Could have spun an object of despise,
To worsen the imperfection, an unreal reality.

The Birthday Girl, Part 1 of 2: The Melodica

It’s the impression of truth in your dreams that’s underrated, not the falsehood of reality.
She had somehow slept the whole night, and had woken up to the sound of melodica. Everyone would remind her time and again that it wasn’t the best way to start a day. But to her, this was perfect, as perfect as it could be, better than anything. She fiddled through her stuff on the night stand, arranged flawlessly to a degree that could redefine flawlessness itself. In a rush, she reached down to a book, spoiling any possible pattern in the way, displacing anything placed over it, producing a muffled noise every time, perhaps the only sound other than the melodica, which was still piercing its way through a damp silence.
Her eyes, as always, were profound, and displayed an extraordinary sense of fidelity, sure and rather tenacious of anything she would do or say. Right now, the same persistence dwelled on resisting and rejecting any impulse to say anything at all. There was no one in the room to judge her, but she made a constant, conscious effort not to utter a single word for she was alone, and talking to herself didn’t quite appeal to her saner self.
In a moment of condensation, she seemed to be looking through the cover that read “A Bottle of Sand, Dream Journal, Madeline Phyn” All set to make the final, most beloved entry, once again she rushed in hunt for a pen.
“I’ll forget it. I shouldn’t forget it. I can’t forget it. I won’t forget it.” Her short held control over unspoken words, to her surprise, had betrayed her conscience, yielding to a deeper splendor instead. But she let the feeling pass with an understated laughter. Deliberately, she flipped one page at a time up to the last, which she knew was still unwritten, forming words and sentences through the way.
But there was already something scribbled on the last page, “They say that the dreams you can remember are more likely to come true. I know what I wished for, last night and in my dream I got…” This wasn’t something she had written earlier but what she was about to write. It didn’t say what she had wanted, just that in this dream of hers, she had got whatever she wanted. The melodica, playing serene until now, echoed through her, from head to the feet and then back.
Agitated, she half-closed her eyes and reached out to the clock in attempt to turn it off, but she couldn’t. Decisively, she returned to bed to read the rest of it. The journal was nowhere to be found. For the very essential commonsensical reasons, she was convinced that she hadn’t woken up yet, that her dream hadn’t ended. She observed the sound of her breaths dropping, then of herself dropping back on the bed. Sure, persuaded by herself, but still filled with fear, she looked back at the clock. She wanted to go back to sleep for the most paradoxical reason- to wake up.
The intensity of the current dream made her question the remembrance of any other she’d seen hitherto. The melodica was now to serve its greater purpose, to consume the melancholy and reproduce it in a form acceptable to a troubled mind. Before falling back to sleep, she revisited her idea behind the title of the journal. She had called it ‘A bottle of sand’ for it was a collection of sharp, reflective, and authentic desires of an innocent mind, wrapped up in timid, awake, and believable words.

Green eyed demon who stole a part of my soul

‘You’re gonna do fine kid’, said the demon with green eyes. How would I ever forget those eyes, and those hands that stole your thoughts, your feelings with a mere touch, cold down to the bones. Fierce, the way he walked, saturnine was the way he stood. His feet burning, a crater of ash flicked on this land with every step of his. Wine he drank, out the winery he did maul, his hobby to steal parts of the passing soul.
“I owe you my dear, you’re gonna do fine, except for the parts when you need the part that now is mine.” The fight was fair, I agree, for except he was a million times bigger, beheld my kryptonite and knew when to pull the trigger.
“Everything you hold back there, every bit you want to flip, is who you are, is what that matters, and makes you different.” How does he live with himself, with those stolen half-souls, I could bet the other half of mine, to the fact that he doesn’t.
I did go ablaze, with a mighty sword onto his throat, spun him down to the ground right in the middle of the town. Retorted he, so wisely, “I don’t know you lad, but with this fire of thine, I’m sure you’re gonna do fine.”  I could though go on and slay his weary skin and slit his blunt horns, reduce him to a single skull with a few dozen cross bones.
“Let go of reasons, befriend the alibi, and I’m sure, my dear, you’re gonna do just fine” I followed him into silence, silently, saw him rip another soul off its dearest, ah! my strategy, curse you my prodigy!
I left his ground for good, left his desert to himself, left that part, of me behind me for no good, that no angel could do right, no elf. And so I sleepwalk in a reverie, and I live a dream. In a desert of ice, in between the pine, I blow into the wind my song, of dries verses, filled with witty broken curses.
Half of me is still ablaze, the rest frozen, fumes of the first lifting, the other melting, sinking in itself. Countless parts have I lost in search of that one, the one he stole, he the demon, dark as coal. Countless of those lost are counterfeited in remorse, for the sake of the one part that was to hold the rest together, tonight I lose a few more, to this never-changing weather.
I wouldn’t lie to you, even if I lived for it, looks like it got to me, and now I’m always gonna want what I can’t have. Tell me that someday, you’ll be here with me, up, here, look me in the eye. Perhaps we’ll take a stand then, you and I, not to kill or to win but perhaps to die. Say, we’ll be seen, as we emerge from within the scene, inside-out to dissolve back in. For what it’s worth, I hereby confess, I am a part of the moon tugged to this earth. I speak the truth, but I do not moan, and that’s pretty tricky, ‘coz I just can’t do it on my own. No, without you I may never shine, apart from that, I guess, I’m gonna do just fine.