Tendrils Poem by Naveed Akram

Tendrils rolled and licked at the air,
Fuelled by the blood of sacrifice.
It bore the gods' talent, floating atop;
Down from the great south the wind blew,
Gathering and slowly deceiving us.

The monster of oldness became love,
But receded into hatred, with slow magic.
It clutched at its symbol of a third eye,
As if an alive mania, of fuelled bones.

A tall pale man shone ahead,
With two arms and alive in ire,
But those who are irate are warriors of arrows,
For they discharge their missiles with flickers,
And their frail and thin bodies turn into
Lovely creatures,
Living a lie for the first time.

Tendrils rolled and spat at the dangerous
And sane man, who resolved the difficulty
With speed, as the gate called the mouth
Escalated, like a climbing warrior.
The warrior himself refuted the mouth,
Spacing the attack with arrows in flight,
In fight, in fright, in sight!

The behemoth collapsed in a half-dead state,
Tearing at its guilt, with tendrils stopping
And love reentering to burden the sane man,
For his sanity became a warrior of life,
And the behemoth was dying,
The behemoth died,
From angered arrows of art,
Full of argument and deceit,
Living a lie.