the slow art of breathing bitter

Fernweh

The iron nail has slipped away.

There's nothing left to see or say. Quiet. 

So carry me home, darling.

Take me where grasses sing

their love for the sky and Jack would paint

the blue jewel and freckled glitter on the sea.

Take me where old bruises are enveloped

and thrown into the waves to engulf them like another prey;

Where my corpse doesn't matter in poisoned glory—

I'd be floating with iced scars: black and white.

Take me to the bottom of the blue ocean

and the dreams of the singing waves,

Where there's no tomorrow but a black-and-white memoir of burned moons and forest fires;

Where history's whitewashed in the stilled moments beneath the withering shades of indigo.

The world's another black hole, even when we close our eyes,

and a doomed tragedy destroyed by the destructed.

Take me to the green fields.

I want to feel green and yellow patches rolling 

down the melody of dancing trees and singing sunflowers.

The sun would melt the purple ice;

Lavenders would tickle my ankle, 

and trees would stretch their limbs against the sky.

Carry me home, dear.

Flowers never grow on our graves; they grieve 'til there's nothing at all.

The generations, now lost in space, fall into the drunken words

spelled out of her lips colored in melancholia.

History stumbles upon the grey-washed rocks.

Moonlight dusted upon my handkerchief;

a few songs etched on my pink skin.

We're the lost, lone, lusted generation of 

bruised cynics, burning rebels, and obscured nihilism.

Dead roses shred dripping poetry and manifested grief;

how blue and lifeless against the earth.

They're composed in the cold sun, in the rhythm of

molten lava, in the sorrows of pocketful dreams—the one I could never understand.

Take me where ghosts can't touch my scars;

where I can feel myself in the bittersweet flower juice.

Nostalgia dries in my eyes—my rosebud cuts wrinkle in summer music.

Blue skies shower hollow bones and black ribs;

another promise of hurt and history. Colors and cages.

Take me away from the cities and sounds,

the coffee-stained sorrows and moonwashed poems I could never read again.

Take me where everything began from oblivion—abandoned and alone.

Carry me home, darling.

Love never looked pretty on us—I want to embrace this quietude.

We were never the children of them, but this city,

Where water hyacinths created a mirage parallel to our world,

and butterflies danced on summers, rising from ashes, black and bright.

I want to return home, where storms and silence sing of life.

–looking at the world through a magnifying glass 

where galaxies and stars are starved and doomed like wasted wine, 

immoral like the yellow rose scars on our palms.

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A/N: 

Woo! I can't believe this book's finally (and officially) finished! THANK YOU to everyone who's taken the time to vote and comment, and most importantly, for staying with me throughout this journey. It means the world to me that you've supported this book for so long, and with your precious votes and comments, you've helped this book get more recognition (maybe to some extent) and support, so thanks very much.

I've had so much fun, exploration, and growth while writing this book. This book couldn't have grown without your support and those lovely and encouraging comments that managed to make my day even at hard times. And while I do have plans to write another book (a sequel, perhaps), it'll be a while for me to start writing it. So till then, I'd be on an indefinite hiatus.

Again, thank you so much, guys, for your love and support, which I'm immensely grateful for. I really appreciate it; my book would've been nothing without you all.

Let me know what you think of this poem by leaving a comment (and perhaps tap the little star for the last time before going). I love reading your lovely comments. Love you all!

[Sorry for the late post! I've had a lot of stuff going on and have my limbs severely wounded after causing my leg to slip on a path full of stone chips.)

Affectionately,

Sreeja.