Self-Immolation

                    1

I writhe in the slow decay of being,
A spark births the conflagration—
Khandava’s ruin now my scripture.

Where are you, brother? No savior stirs.
The heart’s pyre devours all,
Only lava-tears fall, slow and scorching.

Blind eyes turn away, deaf ears ignore—
The tempest of grief churns silent within.
Yesterday’s fugitive, fleeing sorrow’s shadow,
Now shackled in its hollowed halls.

I stagger beneath epochs’ weight,
A frayed cord of will my sole tether.
Yet I trudge on—
I, the poet Mottakinur,
A ghost in the cathedral of time.

                    2

I wove lexicons into garlands,
Till my fingers bled syllables.
Now the loom lies broken,
Soliloquy’s echo a taunt in the void.

Tomorrow, no poet remains—
Only the stench of charred verse,
A harvest of ash where words once swayed.
The scribe who dreamed of sowing stanzas
Now kneels in the dust of dead metaphors.

Behold the wreckage:
A mosaic of fading embers—
The self-immolation of language,
A thousand tongues silent in the pyre.

(*Khandava-daha: The apocalyptic fire from the Mahabharata, where even gods fled the inferno.*)