Treasure Island

Naveed Akram

(15 December 1973 / London, England)

A Doll Lies

The doll lay across my lap,
Lodged firmly so I could not sustain;
No birthdays, no right time to define.
This doll cried fevers of words
So slim and gentle to be forgiven.
My easy pet was a righteous player
Of music that sadly missed occupation
By the spirits of the darkness.
Wavering, with tears of sobbing kindness,
The voice appeared before the soul
That was mine,
And it cried while it was dying,
It lamented due to godly help,
So washing and agreeing
That sweetness spoke and wetness died.

My dolls are sculpted by numerous men
Or toy-makers that you do concern with the
Centipedes or the centuries.
Both truth and lying appear before the face,
So fixed in solitude, like the weeping
Of sensations that tear at the heart.

My voice reiterated and stole the ghouls
From the wet air, casting my shadows adrift
So as to finally wash the dolls of their sin.
They wailed in the trees and eyes of the forest,
Linking their tongues with their languages
Like sodden creatures of the night
Always in obedience with the satanic demons.

Submitted: Monday, July 14, 2014

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Topic(s): darkness

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