miss the ball, miss the trip, miss the possible better life,

miss a large cancer growth staring you right to the face.

miss memories hazy, miss the future not quite there,

miss the almost lotto ticket, miss the stranger who might have been a kindred.

not missing the accident, the possible not better life

when the missing words are finally spelt out on an empty canvas,

not missing the present turmoil with waves high as sky,

a sky for atlas to shoulder, but i am not atlas

and sisyphus begins all over again the next day,

with him as a reflection, my ordeals begin to make sense –

i am cursed.

damned really, where brain atrophies, even fire

fizzles out, whatever reward gained, i am not set back a thousand years.

i am blessed,

when crossroads are met with headstrong spirit,

thou will bend, the adversary who is my constant companion

is gleefully enthralled with each step i make.

and bend i did, i could, i have

for each backstep taken, each stroke done in reverse,

i gleamed a little of hell’s kingdom.

it’s not like the movies where pretty damsels

cater to your every whim,

where one is master to a bunch of robotic zombie eyed life

determined to act on my will,

a place to eternal feast of every vice without consequences.

you see, the real

has consequences – fire not made of creativity,

think reverse, where creative goes into entropy.

then think of the individual

vanishing slowly, all delights reversed,

not a naughty something, a prank, misguided but innocent.

ah – it was all planned,

this hellish kingdom standing in opposition

to heaven’s call,

where despised men are spitted on each day,

for lack of wanting what is obvious.

it really isn’t, the obvious has always been understood,

when the vices become life, each spirt tall and monstrous,

demanding full payment, sleep on … …

the debt gets bigger, till heaven and despised men

vanish from the equation.

then, too will the adversary make his presence known,

crossroads –

humans who see past, present and possible future.

that’s the blessing,

crossroads –

despised, a meaningless life, spitted upon,

says who?

crossroads –

the adversary baits, heaven waits, men become more or less

when words fail to give sustenance: spirit willing –

prometheus, sisyphus, atlas, they too became freed of their chains

when heaven too kept her promises, not with words, not with gestures,

just as a little kindness, a little warmth, a little fire, a little understanding

that lights up a cave, shadows fade out, the paintings emerge,

a sky, creativity, something permanent – a soul forged.

now isn’t that worth something?