"She stands at the foot of the bed"

She stands at the foot of the bed,
arousal palpable in the ambience of the room.
Lights dimmed low, illuminating the rising heat in the air.
She stands like a bedevilled Eve in the garden of passion;
smooth, delicate—tautened strength in supple limbs.
A shift and a motion and the warm light quivers as she draws closer.
Electric storms like love's naïve, expectant first kiss.
Coronal mass ejections like the relenting of higher wills.
A staggering, a stifling and a kinetic chaos
—then a succumbing, a slowing and an enfolding collapse.
Her silver whispers stir residually quavering darkness
as sleep starts to steal us away into lesser dreams.

Ex Tempore LXXXV
M.M. — 27-Aug-2014

Monolith

The monolith stands imperiously deep inside,
tendrils deeply rooted and extending far into the core
and into peripheries. Sometimes obsidian-black obelisk,
sometimes billion-year moribund sun eclipsing everything.
In its vasculature, branching in itself fractally, flows
thick fluid of starless night that pollutes the estuaries of
thought and dream. The monolith is nourished when fear
is sown and reaped in fields of beleaguered heart.
Dynamic as life when life is beset by tides of turbulent sea
and lightning from an electrically painted sky—And the sky
always filled with swirling vortices of dark and sodden grey cloud.
The shadow of the monolith is the shadow of self-doubt,
and there in the suffocating shade light is starved and slain.
It speaks in infrasonic reverberations, in a language of silken darkness.
It suggests, it hints and implies, it weaves possibilities and futures—
The forks in the path, that lead back on themselves, are of the monolith's design.
The struggle against it is endless; it stains hands black and reveals
the voids and chasms that perforate even the most armoured mind.
Lightless and imposing stands the monolith deep at the centre;
solid, fluid and eternal, the monolith erected itself deep in the heart.

Ex Tempore LXXXIV
M.M. — 24-Aug-2014

The Toll of Midnight

The ticking tells me it grows near
The clicking of heels in halls of fear
That Midnight draws ever near

Panting of breath and dripping sweat
I meet my nightmares where we once met
Stolen to the black and to terror swept

I lose myself under the vault of night
Beholding horrors and nameless sights
Soul becoming frigid, murdering its own light

Voiceless I scream faced with faceless things
Over-choired by harmonies that sing
Of nothingness and near-forgotten hauntings

Madness lies in the ticking of the clock
Fear like wolves stalking the timid flock
Waiting by the door for death's terminal knock

It is the encroaching, the slow succumbing
The thing I fear most—its becoming
The toll of Midnight's nightly coming

Ex Tempore LXXXIII
M.M. — 20-Aug-2014

Gyromagnetic. A metapoem. [Incomplete]

Inspired by the basic phenomenon of the science of my PhD: magnetic resonance; and by the patterns that abound in the nuclear and macroscopic worlds.

All things in this world reverberate. The Frequency of Essence permeates through everything, in my voice as much as it does in quasars – the universe speaking.
What we are and what we do is but rhythm and echo. We repeat the same mistakes and emit values to harmonise into existence the ideals we believe to be of perfect form.
The ordinary in us is a monotone drone. Continuous and predictable till the signal dies out with nary an aspirant spike. The great, the unique, the marvellous – these are deviations in the frequency, shifts in time and power in the oscillations. The previously unknown echoes that break through the noise.
And love surely is the most maddening of spirals. Whether upward or downward, emanating or decaying, the never-ending spinning of body and mind transforms us to something of higher state or leads us to self-perpetuated annihilation. The beat of hearts and the songs hummed in the dark and the truths repeated, wordless but resounding just the same.
Doubtless, then, all things in this world reverberate, reverberate in unison.

Metapoem IV
M.M. — 06-Aug-2014