The Midnight Tree – Poetic Prose

(The following piece is a poem written by refraining to the rules of imputing verses)

When we know the day arrives to face our challenges – may be a moment long waited for, a silence so longed for, or may be, a part of our eternal self so delicate to handle that we crafted a particular time to deal with – no wonder we are stupefied by it. For me, it’s every midnight when the moment arrives and I stand in front of that tree as the moon above me looks down and mocks my pity self.

The motion of my blood flowing in a direction, as if knowing where to go, experiences a hunch when that moment arrives. The fragment of that time swoons to the very rhythm of the music played on my radio. I know what kind of music you liked. Perhaps that is why I see Explosions in the Sky, perhaps that’s the reason I believe that God is an Astronaut.

There are times when I wonder why you planted that tree. I know it meant something, but my mind never tried to solve this mystery. That is why I asked the stars and the dust and everything in between to merge with the system of my soul in a hope to find out why. But even then I failed to find the answer and the twisted veins in my ribbed-cage felt like a spider’s web hung by the flesh and the bones where guilt and regrets are trapped like unfortunate prey.

You read my words and said that never before has anyone else incarcerated you within the letters and the syllables as my words did. I took that as a compliment, knowing that finally I have someone to whom I can show my scars.

The tiny specks of your memory are trapped inside the muffled auditorium of my brain where once a poet sang, where the walls were illuminated by every word you ever spoke, and where you once planted a tiny sapling of yourself which, over the time, has grown into a strong tree.

Now all that remains are the crumbling walls littered with unspoken words between us, the roots of your tree now coil around my throbbing heart seeking the love and affection I felt short in providing you with, the branches of the tree bears no fruit for me to eat, but instead holds the dead poet hung by a rope.

I do not know why this beautiful poem has turned into a sadistic art of self-annihilation, but I care for the least. Today, I do not visit you. With only a few minutes left to midnight, I change my track, shoving the tiny sapling turned into the tree, alone, in a distant part of my brain where I have never ventured before. You said to go look for a new world, and I see that it awaits me at the far horizon. I walk towards it.

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