I have been in this audience far too long, held in the filth of the purveyor’s sticky hands on my Achilles on this dusty chair I sit on. Fervently unable to unpack myself even in body parts. From the pale chains of an unwitting game, seen from unrelenting hooks of an incessant tribulation to my liabilities to love in the scattered pages of my torn book. My lungs wail a striking wheeze of asphyxiation, it echoes in tumbling fifths of an imperfect melody of a chorused lament, still marauding like hungry dogs boiled by rabies to bless my blood with incorrigible angst, as boiling shards of my impaired lust jumps in the atmosphere of a flooding river. The lipid ink that seeps from the depths of my sinful soul where inspiration and conviction are constant enemies as flaming war into these thorny battlegrounds that ensure I breathe. What became of my purpose and soul? Why even in this molten lake that swims up my feet, my bones are still cold and I tremble to the aridity of conscience. My strums once pounding and therapeutic massaged savages to their knees as they sought to return their swords in their sheaths to prevent slitting my throat because of my sacrilegious sacrifices in my sea of whims. All this time having been imprisoned in my tides of romance tempest where I found no safer shore, no soft spot to spend even a second to quench tribulation that betides me in my folly grasp of humanity. Maybe it is the punishment for subjecting absoluteness of issues to relativity in my clasp of impaired fortitude to life listened to from the broken vocals of a snapping string.
There used to be such tones flowing through my veins, tones that tuned me in a temperance of a token character, maybe taken forcibly from the tables of gods. They lifted me in my tempestuous storms and filled my pen with juice to inadvertently stay calm and watch nature strikingly unleash her musical potency. They took time to scrap away my sorrow and even in the simplest of terms, I felt such a fleeting peace, soaring to the goodbyes of a heartbroken lover. Such music has stuck in a pit I shriek attempting to sink my hand to scoop the remnants of a broken chords that hauntingly wheeze in the parade of broken beings. In stark contrast to my elevated angst, I have transformed tragically to a mourning person heightened by my inadequacy of control. Then I behold the vultures grumbling stomach to my spiritual cadaver, something I used to hold dear in this life momentous competition in seeking control even to the slightest reality of my imagination. I know how hard it is for some to understand watching the reverberating ritual of your musical instrument trapped and corked inside an indestructible bottle as if everything you worked for is a flimsy aspect of nature’s way to retain balance. To lose your once bubbling faith as everything gigantic in your feeble understanding is but a snapping thread in a land of sharp stones and hot sand. Yet even in the seemingly transformation, nothing seems unique for beings are scattered on every side and you quench your pretension to the fact that illusions are but fragmented realities we dare not to face.
Evidently I shall collect my strength and fight on, bundle unrequition to the repertoire of my tumbling vocals. I shall master the musical language and twirl in the figuration of a feathery wind towards a bulwark of fire that I shall put off even if it burns me. Somethings can only be stopped only if a certain degree of sacrifice is administered to it. I behoove the harmony of a healing tone as if making fresh amends, I chant my way to the insipid picture of a paradise crammed from the token of sacrilegious understanding, terse in apprehension of fate. I held the bait that staying on was better than leaving all along fighting for persons I should have let walk away the moment they bridled their weapons and massacred my heart. They were never the belief I held on to seeing a future together, maybe in my introversion of capricious mistakes. Perhaps love will rue on the walls of abode and in a desperate resolve it will knock my sonnets of melancholia and recapture me in such abundance. I want to go from persistent pain that bustles inside me. I want to pour in the rain and watch my tears flow away just to understand the miracles of love and blessings I yearn to mould whole. I want to compose a lyrical poem to control storms in a defiance of normality to effectively stamp my presence in the tsunamic waves of humanity’s destruction. I want to appreciate my weakness and journey in revived gait while strutting to the warmth of purpose. I want to touch the shoulders of the wind and leap on them while throwing petals to the fondling of nature’s pentameters to my late awakening of serenity. But I am a canon refilled with incorrigible weaponry of destruction.
I lament in the journey of contrition, somewhere beneath a canopy of pines humming an artistic revitalizing menace. I am a slave of flesh and I hang on the piers of bolting waters that speed away to prevent my inevitable jump. I calculate my jump only to fracture my last unhurt bone as desires vanquish the ineffectual impotency of my stream of burden as I feel as a scourge of something I am unable to understand. The equation of my system of character and all I stood for have been destroyed by a giant pestle of chance, trial, failure and meager success. I have walked in straight paths only to find myself in a myriad of paths all centering a mounted desire to a woman I yearn to rescue me but whose mind I am unable to translate, whose heart I am unable to bask in. I bled thoroughly in my failure of understanding concepts and in three years I introverted to my misfortune as I smelt the gush of blood trembling in my throat but unable to cyclone itself out of my weak frame. I lost chances while stuck inside cages of loneliness, desperation and depression all the while unable to shed a single tear from the well that stomped its capacity in my life of misfortune. I have been weathered, beaten down and traumatically dislocated by sledgehammers beyond retrieval of any kind. I am exhausted at such assault in my cause of harmony and shrouded intellect I have frowned from bidding depart to the notion of waiting till it happens again.
I must relieve all the burden of my mistakes. Let me not be the fungi that destroys the bread I long to eat tomorrow. Filter the challenges I incessantly fight to temper in the dandelion of my shroud that I want to step on and slur to the furtive boughs of awakening. I want to learn to cry in all motions touched by even the slightest reflection of storms. Yet still cry some more to the realization of my circular weakness. I want to be born out of these words that campaign for my sanity in the liberty of freewill and measured harmony to others. This boat that takes me on a ride to the channels of my pestilence to the tossing waters of vengeance silenced in the flimsy revenge to the lost moments I must skim from the girth of my crown. I siphon resistance of change and spark my deepening thrust to untangle the York that has wrapped me in the vile pestilence of persistence. I shall go to the stage now and offer my presentation to share my suffocating reality to an audience that will either laugh at my story or empathize with harlots of my woe in the ebbing strings I seek to now compose. I shall go ahead and display my affection, desperation, respect and sparkling pens I have unearthed in the womb of time. I shall strike deceit that prowls me in the condemnation of capricious lust and living I want to taste a little. I shall sin some more but always will be on the move. For somewhere in this theater, I shall find my plateau and walk through mountains and valleys to establish my resistance to control. I shall share my musical form and forever play the tunes of the soulful serenity of a violin.
“…the violin — that most human of all instruments…” ― Louisa May Alcott
© Eddy Ongili 2014