Coma.

Eyes spitfire
Dainty dolls ripped apart
Misused and abused

Confined yet reeling and recluse.

The evening was calm, it wore a somber veil of a mourning widow who wasn't even married yet.
The leaves stood erect as a cold breeze encircled the roots of the massive giants that were lined across the area.A miniature sandstorm threatened to rage in the quadrangle.
And as if mocking it the wet sand emitted a divine aroma of wild jasmines and red poison fruits.
The air around the place was of a raw but fresh sexual ardor of a wild child who was as lost as a dandelion parachuting the mid skies.

She pulled her tights up her lace boy shorts.
This was it.
As she broke into spasms of cold sweat in the warm temperature, she let her eyelids drape her pupil and she looked inside of her.
A sharp shooting pain jerked her to open her eyes.But she shut them tighter.
Tightest.
Doing so, the nerve that ran across her right temple tugged at her eyelids.She still didn't budge.
Learning to control pain with anger was the only dowry she could ever offer, apart from herself maybe.

The dandelion cruised the upper skies as the breeze lifted it higher.
Higher.
But as nature swallowed a breath, it hung mid air and drifted before it lost control and spiraled, falling so rapidly into perdition.
A sparrow swooped to beak it and so it did.
The sparrow flew and perched itself on a branch overlooking the inner sanctum of the once intricately worked upon walls of the temple that were now beaten down and in ruins, but it still had a roof.
And a bronze statue.


Tonight was her night.She'd evoke sentiments people never knew they could feel.She had a reputation for it.
To mesmerize.Like one frame on loop that can even make the stillness of the frame seem like a school of herring through the opacity of clear emerald green waters.Gold and Red.Grandeur.
As she let the silk slip down each contour of her bodice, it was like the quick movement of hands of the sculptor who kneaded and molded a woman on fire.
The embers of which had heated her innermost desire, of which was enough to start a forest fire.
And here, she was, ready to make miracles disappear as she proved its reality.
She needed a full breath, those had been long forgotten.
She decided she could, now, before it.
As she inhaled the various scents in the air and those were then satiated after they pleasingly were acknowledged by her mind, and so she stood.
She tried.

The pebbles were ground to gravel as they were crushed by a metallic drone of rusty wheels.
There was a queer silence now, because all the noises that didn't belong were quiet.
The roof looked like a moth eaten leaf, just bigger and more fragile.
It was like being in a kaleidoscope of events.
The bronze statue was cold.
And as it was held, up, the glass of a bangle clinked with cold metal.
The statue would listen, now.

She ran her silk gown over the dust on the statue.
Natraj seemed pleased.
She did too, to see him.

And she smiled as she held him in her hands.
He taught her to dance like a man.
To conquer and mesmerize.
Ans as she lead her wheelchair ahead to place Natraj on his swing.

She remembered of the roof, of faith.
The time it caved in, she was here, then too.
To speak to him, to sit in peace, in ruins, in destruction and its apathy.
To drown hatred in silence and feel it dissolve into tears of bitterness that slid down the softest skin and drenched its dryness which had spread from her heart.
It was cold and dry.
She could dream here, away from reality.


Anklets of clinking rubies and long legs moved in delight.Curls were tied open and they were bounced off her back with every movement of her heavy hips.
Those slender legs that had water dripping between them as she walked out of the shower,her eyes spoke of innocence and mischief.
And a second glance of love her eyes'd show vulnerability of youth.
Of being most comfortable in fetal position, curled up inside her head.
Her eyes did speak, when she wanted them to.
And a quick flutter of eyelids would bring her to laugh, an echoing happiness that buzzed through the head of anyone who let it resonate.


She placed him on the swing and the silence took over again.
The dark caving roof still threatened and the sparrow still coo'ed on the branch outside.
But the dandelion floated over, to her.
And slipped down her endowed bosom as she she nonchalantly frisked it away.
But then she quickly held it back between her palm and pinky.
Maybe it didn't fly a sparrows flight, the one who wanted to fly like the falcon.
But it could drift and still move on if it choose to.


Wheelchairs have wings.
And when there was a road block in her head, she could always come back here.
To the ruins in her head.
To the temple of her sanity.
To the divinity of her conscience.


Forever ready.

PhoenixMourning.