The Sunday after

 I sit here today as I try to ponder on the inner workings of my mind on this silent afternoon, the Sunday after my escapades. It is something I often do after a long bout of extroverted-ness, my chronic condition of expanding more energy than I would care to on various musings of life. So much has happened in the past three weeks, but most of it too private to tell-tale on a public blog.  But know this: there's a bitter coffee to my right, just within reach, and then the ever pervasive sound of the ceiling fan running as my mind tries to count its rotations with accuracy. I sit donning a jade shalwar kameez, buttons of the sleeves in place, back straight as it soothes the pain, I am back in the confines of sunny equatorial Lahore, the city of gardens, home to guardrails of the Punjab.  I am reminded, suddenly and somberly of my grandfather, typing as I typed, with both hands on his keyboard, fingers pushing buttons, the learnings of his typewriter days being translated to the memo
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BXS : A spoken word


     BXS 


    My legacy dries as I put pen to paper 

    Yet, the west of me cries

    Its June 18' and I'm stuck

    Rust colored box with the walls closing in 


    A crux, to my existence 

    Blank shapes seeping darker than my melanin 


    The bell tolls - earsplitting

    Shattering and dragging away the unwilling silence      

    Now like its creatine that Ive injected, resurrected - pristine 

    I stand 

    A messiah 


    As the distance becomes smaller I'm forced to acknowledge my company 

    Once again

    Face to face in this gradually confining space, there

    He stands - 

    My biggest enemy

    The man in the mirror 


    Towering and unyielding

    Uncharacteristically forbearing

    

    Draped in velvet arrogance donning a helm of pride 

    Abhorring - menacingly imploring 

    My surrender 


    As the walls inch closer still

    time waits for no man

    there shall be space for just one 

    

    Alas, today is atonement 

    The second coming, and the mirage is undone 

    

    He is shattered and stained 

    In as much pain  

    As I had hoped 

    

    It must be now, it must be here 

    I reach out and wrench the most jagged edge 

    A crimson welcome awaits as my neck tingles 

    One swift motion and silver slides on skin 

    

    Finally?

    As land expands

    Sand beneath my feet

    There I stand - 

    The man in the mirror 

    

    Pen in one hand and sword in the other 

    My legacy dries as I put this pen to paper 





   -  Muneeb Naeem 




 


        

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