August 30, 2008

An Island Mystery

Of the several known
Mystery lyrics, which

I had heard and learned a few,

Allan Poe with his rhythmic

Rhymes and

Flannan Isle of Gibson

Are topped.

Here is my story,

Set in a peaceful island village
Surrounded by some discoloured

Fuming waters, foul smelled,

To which the only inward way was

A silver-tanned rusted bridge, iron made,

And both the lightest footsteps, and

The jumbo treads alike had turned

It into violent shakes with

Crackling sounds.

After passing this wayward bridge
I drove my bike further
Through a shattered way

With gutters and all,

As directed by my artist friend

Who dwells somewhere

In one of those
Rustic gloomy ghostly homes

Made by time-eaten

Bricks and clay.

As I moved forward

In those shadow cast evening
With my curious mind

In search of a hermit's house

Where my thoughtful friend resides,

The darkened broken path became

More and more damp-like, and

The greenish fusty trees began to wore

Some puzzling smell and growing dark as well.

In the end of all,

When I reached his dwelling place,

Set in an enclosure

Made of time-worn

Degenerated bricks covered by terracotta,

Dipped in a smell of ancientness,

By throwing open its wooden cave-like door,

Partly disintegrated,
I stepped into the courtyard
Dense with plantains and coco palms,

And with stinking smell of snakes.

From the old perishing house

My friend appeared

By opening an ancient door, about to decay
With his usual hearty smile

And with flashing eyes.

Time ran swiftly
In his closed antique room

Where we discussed the popular things,

As well as the heartfelt tales,

The politics, cinema and literature,

And some of our genuine experiences.

In between this, what I missed to notice

Was a touch of eerie air, that

Made his dwelling place a little bit congested.

The creepy air, and the darkness grown

Together made me to ask

About his experiences with ghosts
And unknown spirits in his
Dreadful dreary den.

His answer made me to shock

As he mentioned certain queer experiences

With an invisible thing, that

Beat him occasionally,

During sleeps or his busy

Writing schedule.

Let me tell you first,

These creepy damned things,

Called ghosts and spirits

Had never made an appearance

In front of me before,

As I have a strong distaste for both.

Soon, I heard a voice,

Rather thump like one, and with a start
When I looked at him, what I saw was

His gleaming glossy eyes, and he said

In a pensive voice,

'You know the old mango tree near?

Where it had happened, that cold blood murder

Of a pregnant girl, Ah! who was

A little comely girl.'

With no delay

And with no further telling of tales,

I took my leave

By grabbing my soaked cap, and

While running out I noticed

His meditative dubious eyes,
Now covered by a pair of specs.

I ran through the open courtyard,

Now wet due to the drizzling rain,

By tramping the weeds and plants

Under my quivering feet,

Towards the closed cave-like door

Of the outer wall, where

I had stopped my sidekick,

My sincere motorbike.

Now at a distance,
After drove my bike through

The similar way,

I looked back with

My eyes protruded, and I saw

In the night,

That old ghostly figure of house
Stands, by emitting an air of eeriness

And with its genuine touch of ancientness.


InsaneReactor said...

those werds r kool dude!

again nice control over words!

Tomz said...

Thank you Insane, Its based on a real experience..u know..?

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The Holy Lama said...

Really queer, the experience.


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