God Is A Brutalist Poem by Tharun ESHWAR

I. THE FAILURE BEFORE THE FLAME
O cursed be the hours that shaped my soul,
For nothing grew in me but hollow grief.
My hands knew loss; my dreams, a breaking mold—
A vessel cracked before it reached belief.
Where others found their place in golden light,
I lingered, nameless, at the edge of night.
No kin, no kindred voice to lift my song—
Just echoes in a hall that stretched too long.
II. THE DIVINE FIVE MINUTES
Yet lo! In one foul-smelling ward of stone,
Where sickness lay and sorrow made its throne,
There walked an angel, mortal in her frame,
But heaven lit the floor from whence she came.
A phone in hand, a gentle smile half-formed,
Her steps, so calm, the very air was warmed.
She passed—unseen by all but haunted me,
A sovereign queen in silence, wandering free.
In that short breath—five minutes, not a grain more—
She etched a life within my inner core.
Not merely love, but every thread of time
I wove with her—my fate, my heights, my climb.
I dreamed in seconds what I'd never live:
A home, a life, a vow I'd never give.
To speak? Alas, I was a stone of shame,
An introvert too hushed to voice her name.
III. THE DELAY AND THE DISTANCE
I thought: 'Become the man she might admire—
Let greatness crown me, let her eyes inspire.'
My task I took, my work I sought to end,
So one day, bold, I'd meet her not as friend
But one who dared to rise and walk with kings—
Yet fate, the jesting knave, cuts down such wings.
The work was lost. The dream, a thread unwound.
She left that place. My voice remained unfound.
IV. THE STRANGER'S REPLY
Then—cruel mercy! —came her name to me
Through chance and code, a ghost through circuitry.
A page, a post, a glimpse of her anew,
Still bright as when she passed my lonely view.
I followed, sent a note—a timid flame.
She smiled and answered, but knew not my name.
And when I bared the truth of that brief day,
She turned, and coldly pushed my heart away:
'**I do not speak with strangers.'**
O, that blade!
That phrase hath more of gall than daggers made.
A stranger? Aye. But so art thou to me,
Yet still I craved thee past all dignity.
I speak, not for I'm known, but for I need.
I speak because I've starved, and thou'rt my feed.
V. THE BARGAIN WITH GOD
Then each day hence I gazed upon her face—
A still and silent torment, full of grace.
To God I pled: 'If thou would make her mine,
I'll never ask another gift divine.'
She was the altar where I placed my plea,
A prayer repeated endlessly to Thee.
Yet deep within, a voice begins to warn:
'If she be wed, and to another sworn,
Will thou endure? Canst thou behold that sight—
Her hand in his beneath the wedding light? '
VI. THE ANGER TOWARD FATE
Now rise, ye heavens! Let thunder split the dome,
For I shall curse the stars that write my home.
You say, 'This tale is not for you to write—
Another waits, more perfect in the night.'
But if another waits, then answer this:
Why show me her and wrap my soul in bliss?
Why lead me to the gate and bar the door?
Why let me feel what I'll possess no more?
Five minutes? Aye, but carved like sacred flame—
And now that burn remains without a name.
VII. THE FINAL IMAGE
That place still lives within my memory's keep:
A corridor where silence dared to weep.
I on a bench, alone with light grown thin,
She walking through, a melody within.
She smiled—not knowing she had crushed my chest.
She loosed her hair. The world forgot the rest.
No sound, no crowd, just her and me and space—
And fate, unseen, with chisels in its place.
VIII. THE CLOSING BLOW
I thought her born for me. That was the crime.
A sculptor-God hath played me out of time.
He built this world in brutal shapes and scars—
A temple made of sharp, unyielding bars.
He showed me love to teach me how to bleed—
Then turned, and cast my longing into need.
So mark this curse, ye gods behind the mist—
If thou be God, thou art a Brutalist.