(15/07/56 / Curragh Camp, Co. Kildare, Eire.)


Warped mind they say,
not conniving, not charlatan.
Simply delirious, unhinged.

Brain pea sized, shrunken or
distorted amoeboid,
insane chemicals,
beneath sane convolutions,
thriving for balance,
on precipice of life.

Solitude beckons, like no Eden
with no nasty folk goading you,
into more madness just for laughs,
and high and mighty, rarified,
don’t cast you off as nature’s gaffe.

In the lunatic asylum where,
the last trace of sanity is
smothered and buried,
I have gone missing,
to seek my mind’s liberty.

Wandering alone, not truly so,
cavalcade of voices follow,
talking to me, about me,
whispering in the breeze.

My blood be slobbered hands,
wiping over my stripped overalls,
to no avail, as hands remain bloodied
and clothes spotless.

“I killed you” I shout and scream,
only scaring birds out of their roost,
yet the paranoia of deceit and death,
as I walk through an apparition,
melting in hazy mist.

Walking to end of life’s miseries,
to stretch over the cliff edge,
to feel the clouds, to fly,
to breathe for the last time,
the cold biting air as I dive,
for deliverance.

by Akshaya Pawaskar

Comments (4)

And so once again I travel into the world of Little Boy Donall, who became the man, Donall, who has such an ability to retravel the world of that wonderful little boy...now, there, my dear, is the real journey! THIS one is one of my all-time favorites.
You've created your own world in your poems, Donall. Don't, please don't clean it up.Fx
classic! kept me rapt all the way!
Wonderful portal into your world again - thanks for this joyous tale! HG: -) xx