Ash Beneath the God

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In temple fire, I rose beyond my name,

My colors burned,red rage, white hush, black past.

Bare feet on stone, I climbed through chants and smoke,

Each drumbeat shaped a god from fragile bone.


My skin became a map of hidden truths,

A painted lie the faithful learned to trust.

I wore their faith like armor made of flame,

While doubt lay waiting, breathing under ash.


Each step I climbed was built from silent need,

From hunger sharpened by a world denied.

I rose, Kaliyattakkaran  in their eyes-

No longer man, but something they could fear.


Crowned high in fire and woven threads of awe,

I stood where questions perished into praise.

They bowed as if my silence carried truth,

While pride and faith grew tangled in my chest.


At last I stepped into the living flame,

Not as a man, but longing turned to light.

I felt myself dissolve in something vast-

The fire and I were no longer apart.


In that bright union, doubt began to stir,

A whisper threading through the sacred heat.

For even gods, when built from mortal wounds,

Will crack beneath the weight of hidden truth.


Beyond the ring of circling ritual fire,

A silent watcher stood, untouched by awe.

His steady gaze stripped meaning from my form,

He saw the man still buried in the god.


He knew the hands that labored under paint,

The quiet hunger wrapped in sacred cloth,

The trembling voice that faltered off the stage

Before it learned to echo like a storm.


For I had walked their narrow lanes unseen,

A name half-spoken, heavy with their scorn.

Now raised in chants within the temple walls-

Yet still a man the daylight would refuse.


My caste dissolved in ash and rhythm’s breath,

But only while the drums refused to die.

What worth is worship born from borrowed fear?

What truth survives when silence guards belief?


And in the glow of one unsteady lamp,

My wife,My own, stood with love I could not wear.

Her light was soft, untouched by pride or power-

A truth no fire or crown could ever hold.


But doubt seeped through the lines upon my skin,

No ritual could mend what broke within.

The whispers curled like smoke around my crown,

And turned my faith to something thin and sharp.


Then drums fell silent, breaking all I was,

The sacred fire sank slowly into ash.

My colors slipped like secrets from my flesh,

And left behind no god,only a man.


Barefoot again upon the cooling earth,

I stood within the ruins of my faith.

The watcher stayed, unmoved by fall or flame-

He knew the truth had always lived beneath.


My god was never resting in the paint,

But in the pain I buried out of sight.

And in that final, stripped and silent hour,

I faced myself,too late to be redeemed.

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