By Afzal Moolla

Love, Mania, and Verse.

The pendulum swings,
while the mania in my head,
strips me bare and yanks me,
into the cauldron of love.

Once again,
never divining the tea leaves,
knowing, always knowing,
the gnawing knots of unease,
that curl into a fist.

My isolation is a shield,
a suit of armour,
tightly clad around my self,
once worn,
then discarded,
taking its place,
on my barren shelf.

Love, mania and verse,
coalesce, beseeching me,
with timeous forewarning,
not to tread into the quicksand,
that slippery bog of promise.

Yet,
in times past,
in moments present,
tis’ that very promise,
that I cling to.

At times I lose,
myself in the crowd,
rebelling in the solitude found there,

at times I claw,
my way back to the now,
aching for the pain that stings,

the buried voice that sings,
dirges to forgotten emotions,

scribbled verse that flings,
the toys out of my cot,

while I wait,
for the mania to stop,

knowing,
always knowing,
that it shall be,

merely a matter of time,
before the other shoe,
must, as always,
drop.

Hardly a Poem.

Splinters embedded under my skin,
each memory a shard of stinging glass,

I see that I see it all now,
the infinite regrets meandering,
down foggy alleys of yesteryear,
as decades and moments come to pass.

Wearing my many masks as I cascade,
leafing through my conscious betrayals,
of gentle hearts once treasured,
now left to decay, in the empty cold.

Seeing my treasures turned to stone,
while wearing the blues like a convenient coat,
untrue to most, I stand accused,
in the dock, the fragments of my past,
are all that I am able to hold.

Where do I go from here,
as I stand ashamed, rooted to this spot,
my sins are countless, my excuses fickle,
the lies have been many,
and all the untruths have already been told.

Was it not just a fortnight ago,
when I was younger than I am now,
you loved me completely, you told me so,
while I slithered inside my thick skin,
shutting you out,
and embraced comforting desolation into my fold.

Now the momentary tears have all been shed,
the wounds of time too, have silently bled,
and all beseeching prayers have been said.

I stagger on, my reflection a mirage,
my heart and soul battered black and blue,

still, grasping onto the tendrils of hope,
if not, then I am truly dead.

The Taliban Within Us*

1.

The praying never ends.

Beseeching words mouthed in countless tongues,
implore the gods.

Praying for this,
praying for that,

The praying never ends.

They tell me its religion,
tradition,
culture,
belief.

They tell me I need to believe.

They tell me that they pray for me.

Their praying never ends.

Across all creeds,
beyond all faiths,

the praying never ends.

2.

I tell them to pray,
pray, please pray,

for me,
and for us all,

that the Taliban within us,
the Taliban that resides deep in every soul,

be expunged.

I tell them to pray,
pray, please pray,

for me,
and for us all.

Pray, please pray,
that I excise the Taliban within.

Pray, please pray,
for tolerance,
moderation,
respect.

Pray for me,
please pray,

that I expel the Taliban within.

Pray for me,
please pray,

that my self-righteous piety may,

be transformed,

so that I may awake,
from this slumber,

and greet tolerance,
respect,
moderation,

so pray, please pray,

that my eyes may open,
to the joyous birth,

of a new day.
* many thanks to a dear friend for the title of the poem.