My shadows of hope

I've walked down this path before Fought on these very sands. Where the mothers of ash still cradle their silent children. All the world watches and judges drops bombs and closes bridges. But what of the innocents? What of them? They are not 'our' innocents, they say. not 'our' children not raised with 'our' values of love and compassion. They don't worship 'our' gods the heathens. Let them drown in the Mediterranean. What of them! They are their father's children, they say. Brought up on poison taught to hate in schools and at home. They are here to kill us all. Yes! Even the 3 year old who is dying of starvation and thirst. Even the 12 year old girl being sold into slavery for a pittance by a father with no other thought but to feed his other children. At least for a day. And when the young, brought up in an atmosphere of hate and deprivation and exploitation and segregation and discrimination take up weapo...

“I do not possess much patience for idiots, but I must profess my surfeit of idiots for patients.” - Dr. Mortimous ‘Vici’ Bach Chapter 1 The howl of the shells added an unholy amount of din to the already unbearable level of chaos inside the medical tent. Pvt. Herbert Hooley sat, propped against the tent pole, nearly at the center of the maelstrom that seemed to have consumed the Medical Military outpost. And, having lost both his legs to a landmine not 6 hours ago, it would have been understandable if he had wholeheartedly joined in the panic that seemed poised to consume one and all. However, one of the patients currently caged in this madhouse had let him into a little secret when he had almost given into the rising tide of desperation that engulfed him when he first saw the mangled state of affairs his legs had become. “Watch him”, the veteran had said. “When the blackness starts to take over, watch him.” Him, being a surgeon in the tent. A stately gentleman of obvious aristocrat...

He sits in the shadows, spinning his tendrils carefully. This particular human has been very helpful to him. No point in ruining him by being careless and leaving him a ruined hulk of a man. His tendrils are deeply entrenched in the puppet's brain stem. He has come too far to fail now. All his machinations have been towards this moment, this point in time. He has foreseen every eventuality, every possible angle, every possible......... Angle. Every angle, but the obvious one. Oh hell. The glow seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. The angel softly settles down, without even disturbing the dust in the dirty alleyway. Her eyes never leave his, even as he redoubles his efforts to maintain the tendrils moving in the pattern he wants them to. She is, for now, someone else's problem. That someone else, a certain Mr. Haldwell, is currently perched about 20 feet higher than the angle. He is perfectly hidden in the shadows. He is as much a part of them as they are of him. ...

And so came the great blow from unexpected quarter. Right before the throne of the usurper. And our wandering hero was laid low by betrayal. And that heart, which no man nor monster nor spell could shake. Was shattered into pieces. And he knew his defeat was upon him. But he raised himself upon his feet to look his betrayer in the eyes. And asked, "Why?". She had no answer, no rebuttal. No tale of woe, with his death as the price. No compulsion, no tricks of the mind laid upon her, to force this action. "Why?", he asked again, in plaintive voice and broken speech. Gibbering as a child, scolded by his matrem. Holding hand to bleeding head and reeling mind. "We could have had it all! My goal was in sight. You could have been queen! All of mine could be yours! Why? Why then this betrayal?", he cried. "Because it had to be so. Because I wish not to reign as anyone's queen. Because I am my own person. And my freedom is dearer to me than any...

I was born into a long line of assassins. Not just any assassins, mind you. My family were snipers for as long as anyone remembers. We were proud of our ancestors who had elevated sniping into an art form. And, for as long as I can remember, I always wanted to be a sniper too. Even before I knew what it meant. And seeing my happiness at being a sniper’s son, my father always assumed that I would be a great sniper too. But fate had other plans. You see, all kids go to school and they mix with a great deal of people and get taught how to handle many, many weapons. And no one can control what kinds of weapons get taught in school. I hoped and hoped and tried and tried to be a good sniper. But I was not my father, or my mother, or anyone from my family. I had not their patience or their steely fortitude. I had not my cousin’s trajectory mapping or my uncle’s natural ability to compensate for high winds. I struggled with my feelings of inadequacy and had resigned myself to being a medio...

Some wars are fought on the ground, and some battles rage in the air. But who fights those battles that are being fought in my head. Who loses and who wins these battles that no one else but me will see. What is the outcome? Who are the victims? When the enemy inside me is me. A lot of blood and a lot of thought a lot of time wasted in ash and drought. I drink the bitter wine of a fool's mission gone to hell and gone all wrong. This pain and anger, this hurt and misery. It starts to seep from mind to body. I cannot hurt anymore. I refuse to. Need another scapegoat to talk to. Need to unload, need to unwind. Need to blow the cordite off my mind. Need to find a different kind of war. I need to defuse this high strung bomb.

We did it. We won. So it must be a little confusing for you, as to why I am doing this. "Hey big guy. I need you to turn this boat around." I hear your voice over the intercom. I can see your face so clearly. Tony did a really good job on these quinjets. The display is crystal clear. I can almost touch your face. But instead, I turn the display off. No one can track the quinjet in stealth mode. You see, Nat, I am a monster. I hurt people and I am famous for it. I see people with merchandise, celebrating this hero. And yet, I am no hero. I am rage, I am anger, I am hate personified. And the more I fight, the angrier I get, until I am unstoppable. Except that is, until you come out of the smoke and the haze and say, "Hey big guy. Sun's getting real low." But today, it almost didn't work. I knew something was off. The other guy, he wanted to hurt someone, anyone. Even you, just because you were there. I can't do that to you Nat. I just can't...

They said love was the answer to the questions I was asking. They said if I loved them, I would do what they were asking. They said I was free, to do as I pleased. But I wasn't free at all. Was I. They said I should listen To their wisdom from the ages. But it hasn't aged well. Has it? I wish I could find The answers in my own mind. But the night is dark. And no stars light my way. I should listen to them I think. They mean me well I know this. But the truth, she is shattered. And no one but me can see. That she bleeds. From a hundred million lies. And only I, among the apathetic mob, Only I can really see the pain in her dying eyes. She is almost gone from this world Her every breath stolen from time. But she still believes that we Will one day unite. And throw away these shackles These hollow trinkets This mad grab for fortune and fame. That we will heal her. One day. I can't bear to see her suffering. And so I close my eyes. I do not open them again ...

Round and round we go C'est la vie. C'est la vie. Chained together by inner fears. Doomed,  Never to be truly free. Always with fear and hate each step we take. Each step further from our humanity. Bang. Bang. The tools of our hate speak. C'est la vie. C'est la vie.

Can't we please dance again? Just once again maybe. One last song, holding hands under the stars. As the candles begin to go out and the stars go to sleep. Can't I please have this one last dance? As the band all lay down and rest their weary heads. As the night begins to fray and out peeks a new day. And before my night dies and your day is born. Can't I just have one, last dance? -- Jonnalagadda Rajeev

Mr. John, I'm so sorry. I didn't know you enough. I didn't see how this life was getting to be too much. How your shoulders drooped from the strain you were under. How your mind started to come apart. One thread at a time. And how you were less and less present in your own picture. How you had seemed to fade into the background. And no amount of light could ever penetrate the gloom you wore as a blanket, too young to wear a shroud. Mr.John, what was it? How could I not see that you just werent' able to cope. With what life was sending your way. How you were becoming deaf to everyone who said that it would get better. Eventually. And one day, you were gone. Never to be seen again. Or remembered. Except as a picture on someone's wall. I wish I could see you again. I wish I could have stopped you. I miss you so much Mr. John. Now that you are forever gone. -- Jonnalagadda Rajeev

The burnt tree stands O so very still. Waiting in the ashes Of it's own demise. For the first drops Of rain to quench. This burning thirst That it feels deep Within it's Shriveled roots. But the tree Only has the stolid sun For company. And in this barren valley Where no rain falls. The tree waits, For the first whispers Of clouds in the sky. The burnt tree stands O so very still. Yet dying just a little Each day.

They are gone now into rich earth, made richer still, by this addition to her. Yet, play on, soft pipes, for more are yet to come, those oft unremembered, under tombstone dwelled. Their bones are yours, earth, but their stories are for us, to cherish and remember, like the sweet smell of spring begun. And odes will be written, as oft as their tales forgot. Smile, mother, for those brave children you've begot. When the world stills, in silent prayer, heads bowed, give shine to their medals, give voice to their tales, told and untold. For we are but the pale shadows, of those who've moved mount and hill. Living like automatons, remembrancers of those who truly have said to have lived.

A life dwells within Such a fragile little thing. The world seems so far away, a life about to begin. Even with eyes closed, it seems, that this wonder dreams. And somewhere, in that cocoon, a tiny heart furiously beats.

Laugh, my friends. Laugh with me, laugh for me, because I dream your dreams. Regret not, my friends, for that is foreign to me, Regret not my passing, tis just my long deserved sleep. Rejoice, my friends, rejoice in my life, that took your dreams, and put them on that sliver screen.

Trapped in a glass cage by mother and son, the songbird stays so silent. He never thought he'd become just a pet and that the world would get so violent. Now they poke and prod and jeer at his pain. The very same people who said that he would be king. No kindness now for the poor songbird no tender caresses, only a clipping of his wings. He was given a job, and he did it well. He repeated everything they asked of him. And now he is blamed for being their voice. For protecting cruel prince and queen. Fly away little songbird, break that prison of silence and glass. May you finally find peace. May you rediscover yourself at last. ---------- For Dr. Singh

In war they buried us, for the honor of our mothers. In peace they held us, until we could walk. They were friend and philosopher, and a shoulder to cry on. They gave us strength, direction and made us real men like them. So for a day, I pause and think, and in thinking, am made afraid. For I walk in the shadows of giants, whose stature I can never reach. I can only look upon them and aspire, that one day I will be a father too. And maybe I will be just as much a God for my son, as my father was to me.

Vengeful, wrathful wraith What hast thee wrought. Upon penitent people, a pestilence Upon the city of God, a pox. From seas to ships, from sailors to cities spreading, from living to dead converting. Why this cataclysm. Consigned to conflagration, the city of God. O education of God, o fateful weave, those who leave this plane, a wave of the faithful, offered unto thine Sanctuary. May they rest in peace. Deserted cities, dire in strait, see the dying in their droves, the walking dead, dropping like flies. Give them peace, o divine justice. Give forgiveness to the dear departed.

Stay your hand, ghost of mine, do you not see, O eater of dreams, That you have consumed all there were, And now I have none left, for you to eat. Gone are the bright scapes, Of youthful hopes, and innocent dreams. Of a life, seemingly so long and invulnerable, Where I could do no wrong and the world was mine. Gone too, are the dark torments, of childish fears and sudden vulnerability. Of story born ghouls and demons, Of what hid in cupboards and under beds. Gone are the first flashes of attraction, Of a sublime need for acceptance, of the giving, and receiving, of a need To be more than me. To be a we. Down your gullet have gone all the above And so many others beside. Now I toss, An aimless, dreamless land, bereft of all. No hope, no despair, no love. So stay thine hand, vile consumer. You have taken all, from Morphean refuge. Only the night beckons, and my sleepless eyes gaze, into her black, endless abyss.

And there, upon that crimson slope, did I see. Young lions emerge from the bodies of sheep. Amongst the dead and the dying, swords thick and arrows flying, there, upon that slippery crimson slope, did I see, Gods made from men in a place that looked like hell. How many a young eye's ferverent dream was stilled never again to see or be seen. Yet, they charged up that crimson slope, yelling a common scream. Let me live! For a few moments of glory, however fleeting. Let me feel my heart beat, let me give all I have here, let me live, if only in the songs of my fellow soldiers, once a year in a dirty tavern over dirty glasses. Let me live as a God of war emerged from this sheep's skin I have worn. Let them tell how I fought as we charged up that slippery, crimson, slope.

A rattle for the child and a bullet for the son This is how wars are won. A rattle for a child and a gun for the man. Too young to understand. A rattle for the child and death for the land. Too tired to make a stand. This is how wars are begun. This is how wars are won. But even the sun setting on burning pyres. Is not the end of man's desire. Even in death, there is no peace. Even in death, martyrs are raised And soldiers recruited from the fresh faced. This is how wars are won. This is why the wars go on. This is how wars are begun. This is why wars never end. @jonnalagadda.rajeev

Have you ever held a flame in your hand And though she burns, you could never let go. Because even as she turns your marrow to ash You know she's there, and you'll never be alone. That flaming pain, that constant sorrow ash in your lungs, burning your shadow. But you pay that price, willingly, for you'll never be alone, upon the morrow. Till both collapse into dust, slumbered embers till moon and sun become cold lovers entwined, till nothing of man remains, not even iron bones, till that final shuddering gasp, you'll never be alone.

The wind over the stone, the earth over buried bones, whisper to those still breathing "Do you remember those who are gone?" Whose names, upon the winds, ride whose faces, in dusty corners, hide Who yearn to earn their warmth again Do you remember, or are they truly gone?

Never again, to where the heart was slain at the altar The sword was bent afore the rose Age dictated and blood listened. Never again, to the den Wolves, all around. A pack within a pack, their skins crack and fall. The betrayer's horns now a crown wear. And the hapless bumbler wears the chains and weilds the sword. Painted as both defender and villain the fool is used and discarded as seen fit. A chess piece, a pawn, a slave, a salve. The board is just a place now, not home. Never again, to the bending of the knee Never again, to the palace of chains Never again, to hope against hope Though this be a lonesome road. Ride. Into darkness, into hell, Anywhere but there. Ride. For blood and beating heart. Anywhere but there.

Swing swing swing look at him swing. Under the tree in the shade. Swing swing swing his lifeless eyes look at me as he smiles. Swing swing swing I can't run but he can go where I go. I carry him in my mind in eyes I see him swing. I can't run I can't hide Cannot forget Cannot rectify. So I swing I swing too I swing with him In the shade Under the tree.

The moon passes by, upon wind slow And a contented head lays, upon pillow. A child’s dream, of knights and villains, Shall pass and melt, before sun’s rising heat. The moon passes by, upon wind slow And a furrowed head lays upon his pillow. A boy’s choice, to defend home and crown, afeared, what action when horn is blown? The moon fitfully passes, upon wind slow, And a fevered head rests, upon strange pillow. A man’s duty done, a crest, a hill, a breach defend But his brothers still lay, upon sand, till bitter end. And under it too, under Lord’s command. Where no moon shall pass and no wind shall blow, What sight their bloodied eyes see, none shall know.

I wear this chain I forged in life I made it myself, carried it far. And now I see it's grim scale, link after link, yard after yard. Weighing me down, into soul's abyss pulling me down under the weight of regret drowning me in bitterest sorrow, I struggle, but how does a man float, when all he knows is hate. I wear this prison each and every day, each waking hour and restless night, I fight for it follows me and slithers over my skin a million insects, a thousand snakes, I fight. I wear this chain, I am this chain, I am my own worst enemy. What terrible poetry then, what great justice, that with mine own hands I consign myself to fear.

Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy Write me a love song and I'll sing to you of agony. Show me my heart's love and I'll spin you a comedy of errors and terrors, how they all hated me equally. They laugh at me. All these faces in my shadow stretching from now to forever ago. They seen inside of me, they know how I work they know what makes me tick, in darkest secrecy. They all hate me equally. Show me a sunrise and I'll tell you of the dying man, a child he was once, innocent and with a plan. Show me my heart and I'll laugh at that useless thing, Never mine to command,a snake to bite those that tried to be close me. It hates me equally. You aren't alone in your condemnation and you aren't misunderstood in your frustration. I see that look that says I could be better and you know but I know that you know that I'll never grow and be more. You and the he that I could be, you hate me equally.

He smells of distant lands, this stranger, I can feel the sand he trails, he smells familiar, but now he also smells of death. His eyes seem to have seen, things that I cannot understand. His hands have done things, I know, that no man should do to another man. Who is this man who stands, Who's strength is a sham, a token, but I can sense inside him the yawning gulf, this soldier is strong, but so completely broken. This is not the same boy who left with nary a care in his head, and now he's come back, and all he thinks is why am I alive and why are they dead. He seems of distant lands I know He smells of fire and death I know There's nothing left of the man before There's a broken stranger standing at the door. But through callused hands and teary eyes I see my master I see the boy I run to him, to fill with joy Where, in his heart, I can sense the void. So he can hold me and let go Of the dogtags chained around his soul.

Life is in the grains of sand that let fragile sprouts push them aside. Life is in the moss that clings to the sides of moist brick walls. Life is in the first  breath, the first cry of a newborn child. Life is in the hands of the young, held in the hands of the very old. Life is not in the blood that is spilt by the violence and hate of man. Life is not in the little bodies that are still washing up on foreign shores. Life is no longer in the hearts and minds of those who would wish harm unto others. Such people are dead. As dead to God as they are to the rest of humanity. Such people, no matter how much they yell will never have a place in whatever awaits. Life. Life is in the mercy of those who stand in the cold to comfort the lost. And give them what little they can to replace their homelands, distant gone. Life is in the tears of the those who saw the devastation that hate can wring. Life is the only thing we have, worth possessing. Not the phone we carry, nor the money...

As scarred as she is scared She's still out there All alone, except for her hate, Still alone, somewhere. Burning, on the verge of a prayer, burning, and no helps her, only stares. Just another pyre after all, in the crowd, Burning all by herself, somewhere. For he, who was prophesied, never came, was never there. A hollow lie propogated She searched everywhere. What she found were false idols The dark coated in gold. They hurt her through lying deception They twisted her mind, took her head. Now, in the end of all things, she stands Alone in a sea of burning people, she stares. Still searching for the lie, for him, she stands Alone, out there, somewhere.

What do you call someone with no self determination, only a great capacity for self-recrimination. Swallowed by the sea, is he accepted, this alien? What do you call he who is dead but breathes? An abomination? Cyclical, he knows his thought process, ups and downs, changes and retaliation. The perfect porcelain mask to hide the old scars, this self-mutilation. Broken by the scaffold, he hangs, himself by a thread he holds together. In silence he drowns, their voices so loud this painful immersion, his submission their mission, without intermission, no intervention, they aren't interested in his health or well being, just his reflection in that broken mirror, pole position. He is fine as long as he sits straight, thinks straight No matter how chaotic inside, As long as they can claim his contrition. Tie a bow around his neck and call his chain a blue ribbon.

To make true this lie, that I've forgotten what your voice sounds like, I walk. Into dust and oblivion, my only true companion, the shadow I once sought, I walk. Into the mouth of the beast denying it the chase, denying myself any escape, I walk. Soon will be gone, The empty bottles and burnt ends, my footprints in the sand, for towards my own end, I walk.

Do you know how thin the skin lies  on a monster with a man's eyes. How deep his claws can cut when all he wants to do is hurt. When he lashes out from left to right with not a worry about who's on his side. When all he cares about is to burn this world down, which doesn't turn just the way he wants it to, which doesn't dance to his tunes. Who mourns the death of the man inside, what do you call such a beast? When has it seen naught but wants and needs which higher calling did it ever heed. Fall it must, such a monster, into the dark abyss of it's own making. A tomb deep enough to drown out the sound of its terrible wailing. Nameless, friendless, alone to the end, misheard and bitter, to the very end.

Deep into the horizon the sun has gone and sunk. No more sails or sea for me my sailing days are done. No more salty mist on the wind no more friends and fun. Not for me the sailing life, my sailing days are gone. The cannons are all silent the plunder is all gone. All the oceans are now charted and I'm worn to the bone. A new day may sometime dawn a generation may soon come. Unknown seas and skies beckon but I won't be the one. For under six feet of cold ground I'll rest when I die. Heavy though the tombstone above peacefully, I will lie.

Chapter 1 The bridge was vast, yet narrow. The chasm it spanned was deep and winding. And upon that rickety, narrow bridge that spanned the vast chasm stood a lone figure. A tired and lone figure who bled from a hundred cuts and yet gripped his shield and spear with great ferocity. His nest brothers were dead; of this he was certain. His vast bulk, armoured after the style of the S’Nickthian school of warfare, spoke of a life as a soldier and a career as a front line combatant. But the ankh of Ing’nass on his right shoulder and the mantle of Ponsible also spoke of a scholar, a digger and a searcher of artefacts and knowledge. The spear of A’butl looked like an extension of his arm, like they had spent a lifetime of practice, for this very moment. And they had indeed. And now, he needed every item in his store, every piece of knowledge, every trick of the mind and every ounce of strength from his body, if he were to survive this. This, of course, being the enemy arrayed against ...

O moon,slow your steps tonight. Walk slower than ever before. For, as the sun rises On morrow, my son, he goes to war. O winds, blow soft and cool as the horizon reddens with dawn. Wake not my lover, from deep slumber, for when he wakes, he goes to war. O heart, slow your beating, many are the farewells I should say. To mother and father and love and home afore I go to war. But love them though I do Weaken me not, my beating heart. For country calls and her sons answer. For her, they go to war.

Dawn falls hard, upon the beach. Scrambling for a hold, upon grainy sand. Buffeted by waves, drowned by the surf. The light still tries, to reach safety. The darkness watches, gentle mother night. She'll wait for him, not fight his fight. Bloodied fingers, and watery lungs. Eyes on fire, lacerated bone, he still comes. Sand in his tears, salt in his wounds, he tries to stand and not fall down. She waits for him still, nothing she hasn't seen before. A million days before and few million more to come.

Like careless spilt draught, of poison most foul. A night begins, and the darkness flows. O'er land lain fallow for long, yearning for plough and love. O'er brook, ever babbling, now with a touch of hysteria. What bony shoulders, shaken from long slumbers, may shrug their indifference, when such a night comes to visit living flesh. The young trash about, their vitality drained from limbs, in the throes of their dreams, now turned to darker purpose. And the old lay sleepless, in beds no longer their own, their lips dried and cracked as prayers evaporate and die. Such a dark night, is this night, and the poison spreads, like a stain, invisible yet heavy, upon this land.

They never taught me How to let go And how to live without you But then they never taught me much did they. They never taught me How to live someone More than I'll ever know They never did teach me What I should have known. Someone like you is a star Shining so bright and clean But only from afar. Cos you're as broken as me From up close aren't you. I should have held Your hand till the light fell From the skies and into your eyes. I should have felt What you had felt But that's not the hand we were dealt, was it. And so here I stand in the darkness Looking at you burn yourself up And I don't know what to do Cos they didn't teach me much Did they.

To all, we open our arms But there are those Whose hearts are closed. And to those cold hearts We say Open your hearts, to all, some day. To all truths our eyes are open But still there remain Those who are blind. And to those closed rooms We say Open the shutters, to truth, some day. To all fears and hopes we listen But there are those To whom none but them suffer. And to those who suffer this way We say Open your hearts, to all, some day.

Chapter 1 "Give us your belongings and I will spare your life", the oldest threat of all. A promise of exchange. Self, for a sacrifice. As empty as the stomachs of those who surround, hungry and outcast. "Surely, a lost traveler like you knows the price of crossing these lands. Your belongings NOW!", the escalation of threat. Most barbaric. But what choice do they have? These creatures are shaped by their circumstances, poor as they are. All violence and base hunger. "It is true that I am lost. But what I am not, is helpless." Surprise. Voice still works. Grates like sand on parched throat, but my voice nonetheless. Should not have come to this. Path was to be deserted. No distractions. So close, it hurts. But path blocked. Will exert energy needed elsewhere. But to give up what I carry? Not optimal. Needed elsewhere. Needed more there, than here. "Last warning, old man. You die, one way or another." Heh. Old man. Show them what ex...