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Writer's pictureKeshav Suryanarayanan

#50 - The Fogs


It’s beautiful when the fogs lift.

When the sun comes out from under deep dark grey clouds.

When the slightest of shifts,

Makes an intensely silent internal scream suddenly come aloud.


Suddenly the stench of death all around disappears,

And the first new shoots of thoughts begin to germinate.

Gone are the demons of embodied fears,

And made visible are the ways to rewrite fate.


The worst of delusions are those you create on your own,

And the worst of even those are the ones about yourself.

Some of these only harden over time as if written in cement yet to become a stone,

But some of these are rock solid right off the shelf.


They crowd around you hiding you away from yourself and others,

Often serving no purpose but their own cruel intentions.

Inventions born of no mothers,

Errors, but of immaculate conception.


There are very few deaths one enjoys, and rightly so.

But these are some of those rare few

That need to be celebrated and joyfully let go—

The deaths of these demons that would have otherwise killed you.


They trade in currencies of half-truths and lies,

As they ride through your mind covered in their dark shrouds.

They attack every explorer you send to search for yourself inside,

And endeavour to permanently keep the morbid clouds.


But at one crucial point in this epic battle, one of these brave warriors

Strikes at the very core of a foggy beast.

And exposes its underbelly constructed from deep-seated fears,

So the other warriors probing have a fighting chance at lease.


This opens up a tiny gap through which a warrior train

Can now rain down on the dar beings

And keep hammering away and slowly gain,

Until through the gaps a glimpse of You can be seen.


These gaps through the fogs grow bigger and bigger,

Until the light inside can no longer be hidden.

And yet, you cannot anticipate nor plan for that first trigger,

It must and shall, come unbidden.


The fogs unravel into tiny smoky wisps,

Now almost evaporated by Your blinding light.

And bathed in it you see all your warriors, for You, raise their clenched firsts,

The proud victors of this near fatal fight.


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