My eyes droop with the heaviness of my sins
and times laid bare in séances
that compelled forth reminiscences.
They filled each one, the empty chairs
placed in the grand hall for the dead to fill
“Come sit with me“, someone said,
and I laid bare my all,
One by one recollecting
each shameful guilt,
some known to family, some to a fair few,
some not dared to be admitted even to the self.
I borrowed a book once, called Shame,
and what followed soon enough was that I fell from grace,
there’s nothing now that can reverse the clock,
I live by my sins, by habit and choice.
There’s an apple tree that bears no fruit,
perhaps I like it that way, barren and raw,
her mocking arms point at each horrified passerby
who reminded of their sins,
take another route.
They want nothing to do with sinners,
they want nothing to do with me, don’t smile – they want nothing to do with you either.
My sins are mine,
let me be, until fire consumes
all that’s left of me.
Take heart in your sins,
my heart is in my sins, not in my guilt –
the fire can have her when I’m dead,
but leave me in peace with my beloved sins.
This mortal coil is for my sins,
then released in release…that’ll be that –
and so be it.
I’ll take your leave,
this is a heavy night, my memories collect dust.
There’s a pink dawn for you, lighting up the horizon –
something to please you, and take the weight of my sins off your shoulders;
the white pigeon seems to almost mock me… or is it peace she heralds?
I need clarity
but my eyes droop heavy.
A winter’s chilly morn, then a siesta filled with dreams.
To bed, then,
and old wounds must not be resurrected.
I get up and place back the empty chair,
push it up against the table beside the window
overlooking the tree.
Ripe apples shine against the frost,
but her arms droop even like my sleepy eyes,
or this heavy heart laden with her heavy sins.
‘Tis a life well lived –
but for these sins, it mightn’t have.
To bed, then.
© Isha Garg