Conflict and Context
Edited by Limi Kalapurackal
Woe: the abode of an intrinsic conflict
I assume the depths of your offerings, following the wisps of tales: of Angels and Demons, of good and bad. “Let there be light”. You were brought into my dominion, though not of my accord, quite like the Star of Bethlehem. I am a seamstress, and it was my design, in the night sky offering solace to the wise men secretly. I preserve your stories and cultures in the bed of my arms. You see, I care little for the skeletons in your closet, a fool’s child, performing rituals for unconditional love.
I am misunderstood.
Perhaps due to the lack of life I invite – a social pariah at my best. When I reject, they reject and when I learn to accept, they still reject. But how could one ever reject me? I was never accepted in the first place.
Still isolated, I ponder the reasons why I was designed so grim. Why couldn’t I be revered like the luminous sun, who was adored by the Star of Bethlehem and humans alike? Even the dawn and the sunset, though on the periphery of my sight, wore emblems of ubiquitous magnificence – the blue and golden hours, they call it. Perhaps that is the closest they will ever come to loving me, with a little bit of light.
I am misunderstood.
Perhaps due to the abundance of death I invite – an ally to the devil himself. Over my night sky silks, you notice the astronomical embroidery in white; nocturnal creations hunt within my sight, whilst others induce another kind of fright - a new world order.
The eyes are the windows to the soul, and mine are Indigo. My feathers embrace the fruit of the forbidden tree, like the succubi of Sirenum Scopuli. My magic is illicit, though I arouse a potent spell upon those true enough to confront me. During the witching hour, the wind dances to my tune, seductive whispering to him, but a maternal religion to her. Waters deflect the truth, concealing insecurities, whilst fires burn bright, a lover’s delight.
I lead my camouflaged armoury onto the frontlines, shedding skin at last to heal from your man-made corruptions, for you blame me for your deadly sins. Your hands uncover crimson stains, trophy of your futile decencies.
No matter – I need not your infidelity.