Musings, Poetry

What Am I?

What is my past,
If not an
Immensely heavy anchor?

What is my present,
If not the
Struggle to stay afloat?

What is my future,
If not the
Quest to Ogygia?

What is pain,
If not the
Tipsiness of ignorance?

What is hurt,
If not the
Lines I write?

What are tears,
If not the
Leftovers of you?

What is the night,
If not the
Winds of solitude?

What is the day,
If not the
Escape from the night?

What is liberation,
If not the
Songs I sing?

What is love,
If not the
Tapering of cracks?

What is happiness,
If not the
Resemblance in art?

What is life,
If not the
Gradual healing?

What am I,
If not
All I am?

– Funadrius

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Musings, Special

A Tryst With Trust

atwt

A string of letters, a yarn of words;
Truths and lies and sayings of sorts.
Knitting together a tapestry of swords;
Feeling and fueling the flames of hordes.

Honours were at stake, a war was to be fought. A murder was to be avenged, justice was to be served. When Mark Antony began his speech at Julius Caesar’s funeral, it was more than a friend giving an eulogy to a fallen friend, or a disciple seeking justice over an assassination. Shakespeare’s pen had created the ideal stage to understand how the conundrum of trust worked, ranging from the exclamatory realisations of rupture (“Et tu, Brute?”) to it’s salvation. But it made one thing quite clear to me – that trust feeds on words. Or maybe words hold an invisible control over trust. I haven’t quite decided yet.

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Read more at: The Best Of Halfway To Asphodel: 2015-2017!


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