Personality Caricatures 2 - The Phoenix

He rises up from a shroud of ashes, grey and hard, almost a stone,

the dust, purple gray and hazy, as it slakes off him in a halo-like cloud,

it reminds him of his death, bleeding and rent open, under the sky alone,

and broken where his heart used to once stand, beating strong and proud.

Till it shattered into infinite pieces in the gruesome battle of emotions,

scattering like the ashes from which returns, blown away in the wind,

now all that is left is a mausoleum, cloaked in stony walls of pretentions,

with a coldness that is all pervasive and metal in his laugh, hollow and tinned.

His carapace rock like, a force-field that surrounds him to shield and protect,

from all the barbs and putdowns, that came his way, generously abundant,

what once used to tear and rip, scrape and peel, rake and rive, cut and dissect,

now bounces off oblivious, raindrops off a duck’s back, unaffecting and irrelevant.

His tongue a weapon, a chain whip of raw hide and coated with metal burrs,

laced with the ice that flowed through his veins, devoid of feeling, frigid and cold,

lashing out at will, reducing to pools of blood and quivering flesh, digital and terse,

with no hesitation or remorse, a complete lack of conscience, unyielding and bold.

His eyes, obsidian and remote, beacons that searched for any usable weakness,

lighting up at the sight of a chink in the armor, something he could use and exploit,

his stare a veritable force, piercing and weakening, penetrating in its brashness,

he saw through the most complicated of defenses, quick to resolve, nimble and adroit.

His hands, which had once been soft, soothing and loving, caressing and comforting,

hang by his sides, never to succor or support, even at the sight of pain or misery,

now hardened with the depth of his hatred, and made sterile by his lack of feeling,

their only purpose to extinguish the last living light of hope in the eyes of his enemy.

Thus rises the Phoenix, reborn of fire and hatred, all consuming in it’s eternal flame,

this is a new improved version, not weak or susceptible as the his past births were,

a cold calculating ticker in place of warmth and emotion, a distinct edge in the game,

his mission, a vengeance on all those who broke him, destroyed him and laid him bare.

The Supernova

He walks beside his shadow pacing it with his weary stride,

every step takes him that farther away from the deep crater,

all that is left behind of that meteor that crashed into his life,

a shock wave that he saw first and that hit him much later,

blowing down his defenses like they were a wall of paper cards,

caught in the path of a marauding tidal wave, angry and quick,

leaving him vulnerable as the soft oyster’s inside sans any guards,

an empty space sans life, a black hole where his heart used to kick,

a numbness inside that spreads like the cold of a winter morning,

all consuming in it’s strength, a relief from the pain of the impact,

freezing up the well of tears that gushes from eyes hot and burning,

creating a frozen being inside a living shell, matter out of abstract.

his only sane thought, a bolt of lightning flashing in the dark night,

is to find a place to hide, a sanctum that protects, a mother’s womb,

however, there is no respite from the freeze inside, no end in sight,

as he drops to the dust, a body without a soul, a empty shell, a tomb.

An Autumn Morning - Old

A whisper as the new dawn begins to break,
a breeze that rustles through the meadows of my mind,
a canvas of blue encroached upon by an orange streak,
signs of a bustle beginning as the day starts to unwind.

A nip in the air as I stand watching the horizon,
bracing myself against the sudden gust that hits me,
sweeping away any dregs of sleep that linger on,
leaving me wide eyed at the beauty that can be.

It's a new day and like every other, as beautiful as can be.

One Autumn Morning

I greet the pale orange bloom that suffuses the sky,

a streak that travels through the powder blue horizon,

and blows away the white puff of a cloud as it passes by,

spreading it’s wings across the breadth of my vision.

The darkness turns to light within a few blinks of the eye,

as the sun raises it’s head past the skyline and peeks at me,

the trees wake up from their slumber with a hearty sigh,

as if the glorious dawn is such a painful vision for them to see.

But I can see through their pretenses as easily as do the birds,

that start chirping their welcome to sun on his onward path,

impatient to chart new territory with their wings unfurled,

as the morning air comes alive with a unique buzzing warmth.

The last of the chill dies away slowly in the breeze as it plays,

with that ball of silk cotton that it runs behind in merry abandon,

I shiver as it catches me standing still in my corner as if in a daze,

admiring the beauty of yet another day in the life of His creation

The Buzzard

There he stands, tall and shrouded in darkness,

the buzzard that feeds on dead and dying emotions,

surrounded by the rotting stench of emptiness,

and the living dead who are going through the motions

Waiting, watching for the first sign of weakness,

ready to swoop in and suck the life out of your soul,

standing silent and immobile but stone cold heartless,

with fingers hooked to talons and eyes a black hole.

Hooked beak ready to tear into sloughing lifeless feelings,

ripping and tearing with a near surgical precision,

as light begins to ebb from eyes wide open yet unseeing,

he strips off all and leaves just a skeletal rendition.

Of what was once flowing, vibrant and in full bloom,

now lying desolate and dead amidst all that has gone waste,

he returns to his perch, an ominous harbinger of doom,

thriving on the despair and misery that springs in wells of hate.

His kingdom a barren wasteland that stretches forever,

filled with dunes that change shape with the winds of fate,

littered with bleached bones that the sand tramples under,

as death stalks this arid desert in search of it’s next date.

Seventh Sense

You watch her lips move as she speaks

They hold you spellbound as you sneak

Furtive looks at them, timd and meek,

In case you make her conscious and they cease.

Those lips, they line her mouth so fine,

They curl and pirouette like a dancer divine,

Like heavenly objects do they shine,

And like a famished emaciated man do you pine.

They lie in repose as she is in thought,

Not pursed or pressed in a line, just soft,

Sometimes, they reach out to nibble on a spot,

On her nails when she is particularly wrought.

There are times when they twitch and dance,

When she is playfully throwing you a glance,

The twinkle in her eye you can catch by chance,

But the dimple in her cheeks will surely advance,

As her lips curve upwards with her eyes arching askance.

The times she is worried, her lips are pursed and tight,

Pressed tightly in anxiety and worry they might,

reflect her eyes which are already cloudy in their plight,

As the storms calm and the eyes go clear and white,

Those lips relax and soften reflecting the eyes' light.

The lips quiver like a frightened fawn as she is hurt,

They open as she inhales deeply to slake the thirst,

Caused by the blaze of the fires deep in her heart,

They alternately pinch and purse as her eyes blurt,

That she is weeping, sobbing inside and needs comfort.

The lips of hers when she is a-teasing,

They dart and curve in mischevious abandon amazing,

Their playfulness matched by her eyes inviting,

Not checked by any mores or restraints holding,

She makes her own rules, her lips obeying.

Those lips, they make up the boundaries of your universe. 

They are a part that makes you whole, your seventh sense.

Those Eyes

Those eyes are the clearest windows,

untouched drifts of white snows,

they can catch you and hold you quick,

that you can't takes yours away in a nick,

the black in the middle drills into your soul,

until you feel all of you is but a big whorl,

there is no beginning or end in the whole,

an endless trip down a chute from a hole,

never cold, always warm and loving,

except this line that you should not be crossing,

then there is a wetness in those eyes,

that make one wish they were 6 feet under ice,

you can see her steeling herself to be happy,

but the wetness won't go away easy,

the smile forced makes you die deeply,

the other times when she is in thought,

while nibbling on her nails ever so soft,

you see them clouded over and not there,

and you want to bring her back to you here,

but it is an intensely personal moment,

and you stop with your hand raised, spent,

then they clear up and the light seeps,

like the sun from behind a cloud peeps,

her eyes are then the clear pools that invite you in,

and you plunge like a thirsty man too long seeking,

the black lined windows of her soul entice,

you to lose yourself in their depths in a trice,

it is not the kohl that does the trick,

it is the magic in between the makes it click,

those eyes of hers when she is in joy,

the abandon and merriment in them, oh boy,

her eyes close up as she can't bear the mirth,

and the whole world is in darkness forthwith,

when she is caring, they seem to envelope,

hold you, protect you in a warm clasp,

trying to heal in their soothing gaze,

any hurt that you might have ablaze,

the eyes that define your very existence,

have become part of you, your sixth sense.