Prakash Kona

Intrigued by Daylight

In a perpetual state of waiting I became a dancer. I waited as I danced. It was only a dance of words. Intrigued by daylight I was also a worshipper of stones. I danced as if I worshipped. I waited in that state of dancing. What did I want from beings that I waited for with no feeling of desperation. I anticipated life would come to my door. It was daylight that intrigued me as it stood outside my being. Transparent windows in a desert seized my raving imagination. A dot of calm on which I stood as I waited for you. Flurried by a filament that rocked my eyeballs I looked for the intelligence of a being without name. What are the motives of a lover who cannot confront the eyes of dark. I was revitalized by fate that detested the sparks of white glistening in my hair. Crisis upon crisis devoured my brains. Madness was a thing of spirit. The gallery I dreamt of did not have a parapet. My mother's hand came out of the endless well of dark and tried to hold me. She could not and I started falling. I made the connection between remembering and forgetting in awareness that I did not belong to myself. Kiss me sweet that I might forget myself. My body is in love while my soul prepares for an unexpected journey. A private song sung in the midst of silences. The tables are made of the dust of splitting lights. I was intrigued by fire coming from the nostrils. It was a fever that made me think of mother. I danced because it was daylight and I could be seen by the sun. I regretted leaving home before completion of the dance. Home was a feather that I saw in the shattered mirror of a school bus with no children in it. Reality turns me on when time is on my side. The king of serpents is the secret father of the hero in the story of the lone child who grows up to be a lover of animals. The mother functions in absentia. I tore into the breast of the serpent king. I plucked the flower of the mother from his belly. I rose to eternity before I fell back in time. My hair was black and my eyes were burning. The lands on which my legs walk are all mine. They became mine in the process of the run. My sweet legs. They burn with fever. My eyes are in love with my legs. My sight is faster than my feet. I see the rose on top of the hill before my feet can reach it. My legs have suffered intolerable humiliation of being second to eyes. They rebelled and protested as I entered age. My inconsiderate eyes continued to mock my suffering feet. Disgraced my feet decided to go down. Their attachment to eyes kept them going. You are my eyes. I run for life each time I wake from sleep. That intriguing life in the mind of the microbe. I need to be overhauled because I keep going back to spaces that reject me. I hate flowers though I have the feeling that flowers reciprocate with longing. I construct flowers when I miss daylight. I am a girl whose thoughts are dedicated to flowers. Thoughtless I began the discourse of overhauling myself. I came to a point where the tunnel seeemed to come to an end and there was no light. You won my heart with innocence that inspired in me feelings of murder. I murdered the light that I never saw. Used to dark I turned darkness into a way of life. I was a leftover from last night's dinner. Call me a towel or a hand that wipes wet lips. Tears devastate me more quickly than storms. I am neither forgiven nor understood because I neither asked nor deserved a look at the rising sun with its immense capacity to watch struggling wills rise and fall with the same treacherous determination of a painting on a wall that can just be there even after a bomb has destroyed the entire neighborhood and there are a couple of old men who collect remains one of which is the painting that is intact and evokes the serenity of the sun as it stands outside the world of men and women projecting a demeanor that is childlike.