O Death, Do Us Part

A scythe is clutched in her bony hand. Her face is hidden in darkness beneath a hood. Her pitch black endless robe is flowing behind her. The Grim Reaper stands in front of me, her other arm extended towards me. Her blood red eyes almost seem kind, full of pity and remorse, probably even guilt. Her form radiates power, yet she seems fragile, as if the millions of souls she’s reaped have cursed her. Her extended arm may not be to escort my soul to purgatory. It may just be an extension of friendship, from a loner surrounded by the dead to another, surrounded by the living.

Put a scythe on my throat and I won’t flinch. I wouldn’t worry about dying, nor would I be afraid of the suffering. The prospect of death doesn’t intimidate me – if I die, I die. Yet, there’s a newfound indifference in me about death, for now, I don’t even seem to care about who will be affected if I die. Death, if ever arrives, I pray it arrives stealthily and takes me silently. I hope to be taken in isolation – invisible, unnoticed and unrealised – very much like the way I’ve lived.

Earlier, I did not know who will cry when I die. Now, I don’t care about it. People may wish to be remembered after their death as good people, and usually, death grants them that wish. I’ve seen people turn up to funerals of the wicked, for cowards hate to be painted with the brush of sentimental judgement which crumbles logic. I, on the other hand, wish to die; and wish to die alone. Let me be ravaged by the vultures and the scavengers, for that’s how humanity’s vultures have always picked on me. Let me be eaten by the dirt, making me dust, therefore allowing me to belong somewhere truly. Let there not be a funeral, for I do not want pretentiously pious people praying for me when all they did was prey on me. Let there not be gatherings of people with remorse or regret, for I hold no grudge. Let there not be any tears of acid which will corrode me even after I am gone. I wasn’t truly there with you though, and please, when I really go, let me go in peace, even if I am in pieces.

Yet, life purges in me and prevents me from grasping her hand. Our need for each other is forbidden, for as uncanny it is for a mortal to voluntarily seek death as a friend, it is totally unheard of death seeking a suitor.

She ‘lives’ for me, and I ‘die’ for her everyday. There’s something about love which baffles everyone. And there’s something about death that mystifies everyone. It is forbidden to mix love and death, but often the unloved seek love in death; and the loved fear the lack of love in it. Forbidden it may be, but to live and belove death is my choice, and to be death and belove a life is hers. Something has to go. Either she gives in, or I give up.

It’s as if there’s a wall.. and my life is in it, trapping me away from her. Life that is enclosed within walls which cannot be broken, but can be jumped over or dug out of. Walls of pious prayers, of societal norms, of staple love and conditioned minds. Essentially, it is life that remains the same regardless of what happens beyond the walls. But she’s there, beyond the walls, alone, and waiting. I cannot see her, but I can feel her need. Unless of course, I manage to break the boundaries and jump over the walls..

I don’t know if I can. And the walls are closing in.

Kaaga Re Kaaga Re Mori Itni Araj Tose;
Chun Chun Khaiyo Maans!
Arajiya Re Khaaiyo Na Tu Naina More,
Khaaiyon Na Tu Naina;
Mohe Piya Ke Milan Ki Aas!

TRANSLATION: O Crow, I have only this request to you,
eat every bit of (my body’s) flesh,
but do not eat my eyes,
don’t eat my eyes
as I have a wish to see my lover..
© Marvel Comics, Deadpool


Inner Hounds

My night is a friend of the slinky moon,
Which hides behind the dark clouds.
Warm summer winds caress my face,
As I stand trapped in the concrete canopy.

The residual peace is unmatched within,
As a savage storm brews in my guts,
My conscience threatens to rip apart,
Like huts ravaged by Poseidon’s wrath.

Behind me I hear dark growls;
And I turn to see fiery, red eyes.
The hounds have found me at last,
Fear, Pain, Hate, and Envy on my trails.

Fighting them was my one soul purpose;
Which I bravely let forego eons ago.
They’ve been chasing my smell since,
For destroying me is their sole purpose.

If I run I survive, if I stop I perish;
The hounds’ hunger heighting me hell.
But tonight they have me cornered,
Outnumbered, outsized, out-thought.

Fear looks hungrily at my guts,
Drool dripping down his fangs.
Pain measures me up patiently,
Checking if I still have some fight in.

Hate is restless, wants to eat me alive;
Yipping and snarling at my every move.
Envy blocks my escape routes,
Essentially trapping me and my fate.

Yet they won’t attack, much to my surprise;
As if they’re awaiting an order.
As if there’s more to this pack,
A leader, most ferocious, I realise.

A new, loud howl pierces the din,
as a new yet familiar beast enters the fray.
Larger, bulkier and hungrier than any;
The Wounded Pride enters the melee.

This is it, then, in a wild night;
Me fighting my inner direwolves.
This is how it ends, I thought;
Gnawed and eaten by dire wolves.

First, Fear snaps away at my guts,
Pain lunges for my throbbing heart.
Hate tears away my long gone head,
as Envy like always, holds me back.

But Wounded Pride will not join in,
For it is not his job to kill.
His job was to sire the four cubs,
Via his beastly ways with Lust.

Conquered me, finally, they have;
Ripped by Fear, Pain, Hate and Envy.
Yet, keenly finished by Wounded Pride,
But truly killed by an insatiable Lust.

– Funadrius



The night pours its dark ink,
Onto the blank canvas of my day,
Peace scampers in a blink,
As I gaze through the grey.

I fear the past aghast,
And wish for a pleasant present.
Yet the future approaches fast,
As I stand stuck in cement.

It isn’t a night, they say;
It is but just a tunnel.
However dark be it may,
There’s an end to the null.

Yet every ray of light I saw,
With my eyes at a strain,
I prepared myself for a maul,
As it was sure to be a train.

Never did come the mauling,
Nor did arrive the respite.
All I could hear was howling,
I wasn’t alone in my plight.

The cement became quicksand,
And I seep beneath the surface.
Desperation drives my hand,
As I struggle to save my face.

My hand finds someone’s,
A despairing, desperate meet,
Alas, it was too little too late,
And slowly succumbs my heartbeat.

Purgatory asks me how I was,
As they weigh my sins.
But they never accounted for my loss,
Neither did they care about my wins.

They told me I can choose,
Between redemption and pain,
And I chose to pay my dues,
Only to stand in the cement again.