The Gandikota Fort
There in front of the mutilated figures I stood -
Watching their brokenness, their struggle against
the onslaughts of time. Their silence was steady,
their vision unmoved. Weathered, but not weary.
Decayed, but not diseased.
No mid-night moon light broke them down,
Nor poetry wrecked their hearts. No wine-soaked
memory did haunt their sleep. Nor a certain
November nostalgia made them cry.
Who had come to visit the ruins , then?
Them? Or, I ?
The ease of anonymity
Easily melting, moving smoothly with the rhythm,
Arms rubbing slightly, sending icy burns down your veins,
Hours passing with the swiftness of a bat, neon lights dance,
Music embracing the air like the smell of gasoline, sobriety departs.
The fright and fury of it all , a moon-struck madness,
Lonesome bottles and images of car-crushed dead cattle ,
Boiling under your skull , a weird witchcraft of sorts -
In breathing the peace of an unexplored mountain top,
A relief in that strangeness , in arms you have never known at all.