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Poem 112

Scarcest of all the Primordial Wonders

By Kait ThursdayPublished about a year ago 2 min read

Lying wakeful, facing eastwards.

Over decayed streets, caving under,

past the lunar reflections on frigid waters,

through barren desert with vampiric sands,

then o’er water again, now tepid and weak,

at last, her mind finds the crumbling temple

hidden by trees upon trees in the fruitful jungle.

There she searches in ruins until she finds her:

She who is Death, the rubied-eyed Kali Devi.

“Wanderer, wanderer, bleary wanderer,”

says the goddess, “where went your sleep?”

“Sleep has deserted and betrayed.”

“Traveler, traveler, restless traveler,”

says the goddess, “and why do you seek me?”

“To beg retribution and violence against my oppressors.”

With many hands outstretched and feet shuffling,

the goddess sways as she speaks,

“Many have asked for my violence;

many have asked for my retribution.

I give all they need and nothing more.

And so, I will for you, but pay heed:

I see violence in the minds of your countrymen,

who wish to harness my destruction for ill-gotten gains.

How they crave dissension but fear disarray.

How they waste their nights for mere seconds of pleasure.

How they fight for the biggest headstone in the graveyard.

And such damage they do in the name of preventing ruin.

Seek not what they have, daughter;

seek not their ancient, haunted cities,

their slinking sadism,

their maimed mentalities,

their sonic boom which blasts skin from bone.

Sow your fallow fields.

Listen to the echoes in the corridors of your mind.

Sing in your solitude

and dance in your despair.

Sweeten your tea in the morning

and forget your wicked past.

Man crawls on his belly

and slinks in the darkness

to devour loveliness

and deflower femininity.

War is the hammer of men;

violence is their nail.

Build your world instead with justice and symmetry.

Light and glory.

Wisdom and reason.

Seek not the crooked tools of crooked men.

See how I stand on Shiva,

see how he differs from males of your kind;

he calms me with his presence,

lulls me with his sacrifice.

See how the world turns because I love him.

I will give you the rarity you need,

scarcest of all the primordial wonders:

peace, peace, peace, my little one, shanti.

Take it with you, lest you fall into the chasm.

Crave not the violence of winters' past.

The universe calls your name, child.”

Awakening, facing eastwards;

with eyes rested and mind calm.

“Peace, daughter, not calamity,”

whispers the goddess, “but not for me.”

surreal poetrysocial commentary

About the Creator

Kait Thursday

I'm a poet and a novelist, but my friends call me a starving artist. I've been writing for twenty years and have no plans to stop. I post new content to Vocal every month, but I have ADHD, so remind me if I forget.




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    Kait ThursdayWritten by Kait Thursday

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