Should I?

Hmm... would it ruin the theme of this place to add a couple of essays? I know it's my blog and I can pretty much do what I want, but It's like Ray in Everybody Loves Raymond.. It has to appeal to those I'm trying to impress! So to the few visitors that DO visit this place and send me those refreshing emails (your constructive criticism is appreciated), let me know. Take care for now.

Sight

I see the battered memories,
On a sky of chastised denial.
Speckled like the auburn dust
On a sea of wanton betrayal.

I see the dreams of most beings,
Enveloped by a night : An end.
Broken grounds to tread upon,
And broken spirits to befriend.

I see all glory compromised
To fulfill a sinful greed.
The accomplishments of the ages,
Forsaken in times of need.

I see the torn fragments,
Of a life that none shall find.
And so I watch, and wonder If this is sight,
I would rather be amongst the blind.

By,
Nikhil Menon

The Mortal Messiah

My sweat mixes
With my burning blood -
A crimson streak across my face.
The air once had,
The crisp whiff of spring.
It is now fouled by my disgrace.

The instrument of
Death on my shoulders,
Is not meant for one man to lift.
Why must I
Endure this misery?
Am I not YOUR holy gift?

They punish me
Not for what I've done,
But for what I will do in time.
Am I not
The deliverer, father?
Where are my powers sublime?

I have endured
Much pain, father.
Why must I suffer this today?
The hill, it seems
So distant now,
And vicious are those on the way.

The crown of thorns,
Seeks refuge in my flesh.
If only I could cry, or grieve.
But I must not,
Lest I destroy,
The faith of those, who still believe.

I have arrived
And now I wait,
For the end of prolonged pain.
As they do their bidding,
I stare at a once
Clear sky, that now brings rain.

The light fades,
And so my life.
This silence is my eternal friend.
As a promise,
A messiah, I was born.
As a grateful mortal, will I end.

By,
Nikhil Menon

Revelation Of Purpose

The existential realm,
Is but a challenge for the meek.
With anger at the helm,
I hear thoughtless fury speak.

A slave to mortal whim -
You are a prisoner of sorts.
A patient fate, too grim,
Awaits the master of torts.

It was an epiphany enchanted,
That became the messiah ignored.
Seeking to be reprimanded,
Our own belligerence we must ford.

Pray not to the holy being and
Worship not, his powers, great.
Realise that the truth is in seeing,
That we are the masters of our fate.

By,

Nikhil Menon