Plague Of Faith

By – Manoj Sri Harsha

ACT I
Walking in the streets of Constantine,
the knight saw people
crawling and begging for medicine.
He held his anguish in his throat,
continued walking among the corpses
and got onto a boat.
Rowing away from the town,
he can see the sun about to set
darkening the town sitting upon its horizon.
Rowing away from the cries of kids
"What did we do to deserve this?" he asked.
"I'll not return without an answer," he closed his lids!

Act II
The boat reached the shore,
the knight jumped out,
and tied the boat; remembered what he had swore.
Keeping in the mind, his townsfolk,
he walked into the church
that was old and broke.
He sat on the bench,
and looked at the walls,
the gods' place is now full of stench.
Closing his eyes,
he leaned on the bench,
started singing a song to keep away the mice.
"Lord, O' Lord, What have we done?
Are you so angry?
That you won't even spare one!
Is it the work of you?
or is it the devil?
For, there's no difference in the view.
Am I not your dear creation?
Am I your regret?
Is this plague a retribution?
For, it is worse than damnation!"
Tears wet his cheeks,
he grind his teeth
clenched his fists.

Act III
Time had passed,
and he lost his hope.
He felt a hand on his head tightly pressed.
Couldn't look above,
For its heavenly glow!
"I'm here son, with all the love"
a voice pierced his eyes,
and he opened his eyes slow.
"What are these mice?"
"Why is everyone drying?"
"Did we fail you, did we not praise?"
The knight cried.
"No, my son, No, my son!
No, this is not a damnation
No, this is not the work of me, neither the devil!
Neither is this a retribution, nor are you my creation!
Never did I exist,
Till you conceived me!
No! For you problems, I can't assist!
I am just a mirage,
just an idea one had thought.
You made me real, in your own image.
No! The plague is not mine,
Neither the burden of your fate."
Knight was surprised,
blank was his face.
"O human, creator of mine!
Are you so angry?
That you can't spare the attention of mine!
It is the work of you,
and not of the devil!
For, there's no difference in the view.
Am I not your dear creation?
Why do you blame me for everything?
And ask for salvation?
I can't give you answers,
For I'm just your imagination.
Stop using my name for your advantages,
don't cover the malice you brought,
under my disadvantages.
Liberate me from this burden,
clean my blame.
For the creator you are,
destroy me yourself!"
The knight opened his eyes,
looked around and paused,
the place was filled with mice.
Up he jumped,
and was still confused.
Was this just a dream? He yelled.
Determined to his vow,
he untied his boat,
and started to row.
"I will travel all the world,
will bring the cure to this plague,
this plague of faith, behold!"

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penfluky

Writing is not a skill acquired through practice. Not for us, at least. Writing is a phenomenon that occurred to us when we wanted to shout our thoughts out. It occurred when our brains formed a labyrinth of thoughts with no way out. Only way was to break the walls, the walls we constructed in our minds. The walls which stopped us from letting ourselves out. We broke the walls using the most mightiest weapon, the pen. Writing was our way out of that maze. Words and sentences flowed like a stream of some river, which consisted of A2Z instead of H2O. Soon the river filled the brain and the labyrinth was not visible anymore. 

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