I have so many sentences shut in the desk of my table that I have abandoned,
they spell out too many feelings that don’t settle right in the gaps between my bones anymore,
there is a fracture on the surface where my skull has rested for so long now,
maybe my memories are tearing through the wallpaper to see some light.
But the entire temple is dark with the scent of burnt out candles,
maybe the smoke hopes to find a living figure to wrap it’s fingers around,
a vine grows like the illegitimate child of a scorned noblewoman on the bookshelf,
like it’s reclaiming the royalty of it’s ancestors who have been turned into shelves.
My altar is filled with *people who worship me, but not a single one that prays with folded hands,
they recite words of praise in muted black and white that my golden blood cannot comprehend,
they weave flowers from around the world in the coiling patterns of my braided hair,
yet not one hand approaches to untangle the knots of my silver tresses.
They have put a stone on the throne that once used to be mine and call it goddess,
they revere and also sacrifice the very womb that rests within me,
they call the statue a name that I do not recognise, it’s not mine, I never named myself that,
my real name lies in the tongues of graves six feet under my throne.
I sit with my back pressed against the back of the place that I used to rule,
away from the sights of those that call out to someone that I used to resemble long ago,
my power occasionally flares up in the eyes of young explorers who reach my ruins,
I have hidden my swirling magic in my fingertips under my purple robes.
And as the moonlight climbs high in the sky above the stained glass ceiling,
I ascend the throne with my crown of immortality I was cursed with, memories I can no longer escape,
I don’t speak in words, only stories, I have existed for too long,
there is noone here who remembers my origins, I am a goddess in exile.
* The difference between worship and prayer is that worship is a religious admiration, but praying is communication. Often we let things disappear by not communicating and just admiring from afar.
Shreya 😉
Wild Feelings 