From the Desk of: A Terrorist (A Poem)

From the Desk of: a Terrorist

After years of violence- a life devastated

By the sinister intention of harm screaming inside my troubled brain-

I now stare in the face of silence.

Endless days of shelling innocence

And unending nights of ear-splitting noise

Made by whizzing bullets

And diabolical calls from vicious men

Seem to embrace their closure.

The inhuman hand that held a weapon capable of proving human mortality

Now holds a pen

Realizing the inevitability of the same.

The ink in the pot

Desiccated

During all this time due to its futility

Has been rejuvenated by hope

And spoonful of water.

And so I make the most of this moment of sheer bliss.

Hello. I am a Terrorist.

My name holds the least importance

As do the names of others

Of my breed.

The world around me doesn’t seem much ‘intriguing’.

Men women children:

Potential targets condensed in flesh and blood-

Bear the most important weapon of mine.

Fear.

The teeny drop of blood

Red with life

Settled on the epidermal woollen seam of my long robe

White with serenity

Is reminiscent of the acts of barbarism

I have been committing all my life.

Using my breath

To end others’.

Never

Did I confront the inkling

Of the cogency of my deeds

Until now-

When I gape at the nothingness perched on the table.

The ink is drying and

My eyes drenching.

In a moment will be the paper wet

Not with ink but tears.

I realize

My weapon had forever

Resided in my flesh and blood.

Growing with every moment that spot on my robe reminded me.

In the days of the past I yearned for a reason

To spend this gift of breath.

Little did I know

I chose the wrong one.

Faith

The excuse of what I gave-

The least of what I knew-

Even lesser of what I tried

To know

Deceives me in all its forms.

‘Belief’ reprimands me.

Remorse engulfs me.

The nothingness that lay in front- compels me.    

However- this poison

Won’t eschew my being.

The bright soul inside this dark frame

Won’t break free.

The blood on the robe

Won’t dissipate.

The nothingness on the table

Won’t saturate.

For I lack

A name a faith a form a conscience.

For I exist

But not in being.

For I live

In every source of life.

I am terror. A parasite.

I am not me.

I am in you.

The ink has dried. My mind teems. And nothingness persists. 

     

©Vikram Grewal