Dead Cornea: Lifeless Pupil by Ramsha

In an utter desire to disappear from the fringe of my own sight, I write this to you…

I know I have not been a good child unlike your other children. Now, when I feel that I am left all alone by those who claimed to stay there, to provide me with their shoulders to put my head on, and now when there are only those left around who have never withhold themselves from adding onto the toxicity of this already lethal stigma which we call life, I only desire to be with you. The distance has always played a cruel actor in the drama of my life. It already has snatched many precious people away from me, and now it is forcing me to bear the similar kind of loneliness for the thoughts that connect your affection with my ragged being.

I confess, in the darkest of times, that I need another life of the kind to learn how would I breathe through this one. The life which is according to our world or, maybe the life, which is appropriate in the other world; the real world waiting for us out there.

It is so bitter that I have begun to ignore the darkness. The metaphor which has played the role of almost an eternity for my mortality. I cannot even see, rather sense, darkness anymore. It is just my breathing which has kept me bothering about gazillion useless yet valuable issues. I have shared this plenty of times before, not with you, not with anyone else but, with him that I don’t want to breathe anymore. And, I know somewhere in the brains of my heart that it will keep moving forward for it has a few more nightmares to offer during the dazzling daylight and a few more scars to proffer within an ugly facade of salvation.

Afternoons of Extravagant Delight by Ramsha Ashraf

Picking on the dead flesh
The dead writes on the dead’s body.
He inks the pilgrimage to find sanctuary
From that dull, dismissive, charcoal night
Toward the afternoons of extravagant delight,
Not realizing, maybe in a desire of not wanting to realize,
That the pale flesh does not breathe, move and respond
To his elongated fingertips, his unfamiliar eyes move but do not see,
His finger-pores leave messages but withhold his characteristic warmth of oblivion.
Delightful, it could be, if the flesh-bearer could, again, sense the monotonous ink of love.