A Still Silence.
Why does the beauty lie behind the curse?
This curse of inadequacy, of death.
This whiteness that destroys the dark,
Inside of you and me.
For we aren’t just colours,
We are the absence of colours.
The presence of intensity of sentiment.
As I bow down to my eternal end,
To our predicted future,
Inescapable and ever-present.
I can hear the silence after the question,
A lack of words to say,
After the last goodbye,
A lack of friendship,
A cold stare passed passively,
For we are animals demanding warmth,
Of an empathetic acceptance,
Of our flaws and our vices,
In this dystopian setting.
To cease and take a break,
To halt in the madness,
And feel the life crippling away,
The norms fading out,
And the insecurity settling in,
Like a tenant of virtue,
In mere existentialism.
I wonder what it feels like,
To be so close to what is in the heart,
But yet, be miles away.
Seeking refuge,
In the resonating murmurs of comfort.
Discovering the beauty lying dormant in land,
And feel yet a disconnection
A space left vacant,
For a wonderous tenant,
One in plain sight,
And one buried away in an unvisited subconsciousness.
Sometimes I can hear the yelling,
The sobbing and the weeping,
And the pain becomes unbearable,
But pain amazes me too.
It leaves a bitter after taste,
One which is addictive,
Like caffeine in the cup of coffee,
You refused to drink in agitation.
Or like nicotine in the cigarettes,
Of smokers that I’ve tried to cure.
All useless efforts in a fruitful cause
But a fruitless result.
I still hope,
For a resonating voice,
That shutters in the still silence.
Either your word of value,
Or mine of grief.
– Imaan Siddiq
The Genres of Life 