The Anti-Christ of Dorian Gray

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There are people who play mind games
Like those who want me to give up on research
Knowing its the best thing about me
Forgetting for an eternity that my Ph.D. yielded 7 publications
Many of which were blossoms of my own buds
Ideas that challenged the foundation of science
And erected cathedrals of empirical truths
On their shoulders.

Mind games are the vehicles with the number plates
“GA” to convince you’re gay or “KV” Kitchie Victoria
The kiddish faced 29 year old I asked out
In the Philippines to insinuate, God knows what, mere blasphemous
Demerits. People are flawed. They are like the bent coconut branches
That God or general decency can never straighten
They are sun-seeking phototrophic plants
That look for light at all the wrong places
The sun that is too bright to make sense
Or the moon that is too cratered in its short history
To make the light a change of landscape
And we only become enlightened when the monk in the temple
Gives a sermon about merits or priest at the church
Talks about how the eldest child, the righteous one,
Is welcomed in heaven as much as the confessing
Prodigal son. People still forget enlightenment
As they go out in to the street, the light just as fluke
As the flickering lanterns of fire flies
Or a kerosene lamp with a short supply of kerosene.

And they will continue to play mind games
Men are vicious, they exude sins like the melting skin of a leper
They lie with a straight face even though
They know they are caught out with the very first word.
They make gods out of arm-chair warmers
The de-facto experts of sexuality, the idiots
That form opinions on how you talk to the genders
And make virginity into a pariah, when all that it is,
Is a beautiful wait of the unknown
To usher in a supernova, a cataclysm of
Your senses.

And man will continue to slander me
The man I am, the boy before me
And the old man down fate’s corridor
Knowing I stood up for what I believed in
Resisting fornication, idolizing virginity
Treasuring the first time, cherishing love
In all its inflorescence. And they made me
Into a mentally-ill schizophrenic, when I had no traces
Of delusions or hallucinations, just sensing reality
With my sixth sense.

And with time, I will be
The old man, poetry still flowing from the nib
And mind games gone with the declining ammo
In my penile tissues, when they will
Judge me still, on how fat I am or how ugly I am
Or how I achieved nothing in my life
– All that potential going to waste.
Yet knowing that they raised barriers
To all my potential, the dams that litter
Everything I do – research, poetry or any form
Of creativity. And one day,
I will be transcend this universe
As the anti-Christ to Dorian Gray
A man who with no sin in his backpack
Yet no worldly beauty to call his own
Lurking in the shadow of wrinkles
And silver strands, waiting for a silver lining
To take over, when I will dance
Till the macabre is in me, and I will cease
To be Dilantha; the last song, the last dance
The last step I will take on a slanted floor
Till the music stops; no more palpitation,
Just a lullaby for the kite to land
On the windless plains
Under a tombstone.

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