A Modern Veda Poem by Tsani Jones

Her spirit walks among
The stones and skulls
As a love
Burns in effigy.

The loss is shrouded
In her mourners' garb,
The burlap rough
Against the stench of the smoke.

Beyond the horizon
Outside the reach of her pain,
Another heart
Gazes into a glass, darkly.

He has been here before,
His own agony
Leaking into the world like
Unrefined oil from a fault.

The sense of the break
Does not elude,
It spreads like a rancid
Disease, consuming what remains.

The commoners attempt to console,
Try to repair a loss.
The procession leads to the
Path of uncertainty.

A part of her dies.

His bondage continues in secret,
Hidden from the world
The last great crime of humanity
And an ember loses the glow.

The ways have parted,
A black sea flowing to
Obliterate sunshine to
Plastic shores.

His is bidding his time,
The light of love in
His heart is dull
But still remains.

The struggle continues,
Survival is the key.
It is known that
'He who endures to the end shall be saved...'

A part of him lives.

The shell scrapes,
The echo of what should be
Diminishes the blessed silence
Of what once was.

She walks in silence
To the tomb,
So empty, so uncertain,
And cold.

The death stains her blood
Pallid, the vitriol gains
Its hue, a tambor of
Hollow footsteps fill the wake.

Ritual overtakes reality,
Pain becomes the essence,
A raison d'etre devoid
Of her certainty.

In his distance,
Every moment, every deficient
Path is his purpose,
One step closer.

Each day remains one
closer to his own demise,
Yet the path that can lead
To rebirth.

The faith is the primordial hope.

Somewhere a seed was supposed to die.
The death was assumed certain,
It cannot be true that energy
Never loses form...

He shifts focus and gains power,
In the darkness and night of blood
The fires awakes, his Queen
Calls faintly in loss, subconsious hope.

The Dragons gain speed and shift course,
On to the West! Fly to our Master!
The Ascendant stands on weak legs
Draws his height, gathers the essence of station to himself...

She remains blind to the fury of the legboa,
Gaining their heat, yearning each moment
To transfer their power,
Find their timeless place.

Each heartbeat is a toll,
A call to war, a resolution
Of earthly time's dissipation
And the royalty of eternity's concourse.

Her ears are pricked,
But faith in the dead is
Not a thing
Easily restored.

The call for Mahadevi
Begins softly, as a feather
Balanced on a floor
Of a lamb's wool.

The flames of his recreation
Burn the flesh away,
The pain replaced by
The flowers of her icon.

He becomes the Bhairava,
One with the hope,
The taste for salvation
Within grasp.

The glass is shattered,
Pain blinds her tender eyes,
As light awakens
And resurrection begins.

He sails the winds
Like a storm aimed at calmer waters,
His transport engaged
In exertion of his will.

My Queen, throw off your rags!
Rise to the heavens, My Parvati!
Dress yourself in your eternal robes
Of infinity, the jewels of your nature!

I rise from the dead,
Covered in my own ashes,
No longer call me those old tired names,
Be the mirror you are universally destined to be!

Call me, my lover,
Announce me to the door
Of your heart as the
One you truly know me to be.

Reflect my greatness to
Myself, build my power,
My heart, my soul,
To who you know me to be...

I am called Mahadeva.