The Anatomy of the Self

This body coils within the mind’s black maze,
A spiral trembling, naked, without grace;
I wandered blind, in shame, in nameless dread,
Where twilight’s sorrow crowned the path I tread.
I sought the secret, veiled in dusk’s decay,
A ridge of fire, a night that would not stay;
And knew too well its claims, its helpless art—
The cursed painter sketching from the heart.
A path without a pole, a crooked will,
With talons sharpened, hungering to kill;
No love abides—only disbelief and pain,
Regret concealed, yet flowing without chain.
Those ruthless eyes stare cold, devoid of plea,
While tears unwanted wash the dust from me;
They drive me onward, toward the oath infernal,
Where music swells, unpitied and nocturnal.
Here in Birbhum, vice ascends the throne,
Knowledge swells, and shadows flesh to bone;
For it is my wound, my knife, my red-stained hand,
That flares across the heavens, vast, unmanned.
My eyes—two torches, fierce, unquenched, aflame,
Burn through the cosmos, bearing forth my name;
And though the world dissolves in dust and sea,
I shall not flee, I shall not flee.