I am a visitor here, and not of this world.
I once had wings for those who wanted to fly, to be transported to places far richer, happier, and greater than this one, that they may see everything and everyone else they love, loathed or despised and not always from below but alas!—from above.
I once have eyes yet blinded by childish selfishness and pride, like those who cannot see the truth from their lies, the false from their make-believe realities; the certainty of defeat hanging sure and precarious above their heads, of every downfall and death crafted by their own sorry misdeeds.
I have ears just the same so I can listen clear to your pains, to unburden your heart while I hear the rise and swell of your hurt—the echoes of your sufferings, relentless!—tinged with unfulfilled and fearful dreams of sorrow each night.
I have no lips though, to speak ill of my neighbours, no mouth to curse my curious pretentious visitors, no voice to condemn my friends’ hypocrisies or praise myself and be proud once more and again.
I have a face only so you can recognize me from the crowd, to find me from afar when you need my shoulder, my attention, and time; thus, see me as I am in my most naked, beautiful dazzling self—unblemished, pure, and unreal.
Yet, I have no heart to share but can only give you whatever happiness you so desire—be it material, sexual or unnatural—whatever joy I have, which you might forsake or deny…Listen, I can provide you anything your heart covets, hungers or thirsts.
I have a body to keep you warm when you are desperate, cold, or alone; my strength is yours to hold—awake and alive when you feel weak, tired, or uninspired—to nourish your passion when you are forlorn and your fires are out.
I have arms to extend and reach out for your wants, to direct and point the right paths, the best ways, the proper directions and positions you may choose to take gleaned from the stars—if only you will believe and close your eyes.
For I have a tail now and much embarrassed of it, to keep me anchored on my feet and hold myself upright and straight, lest I soar and shoot the clouds and climb once more over and above what I already know, absorbed, and learned to be my own.
Yes, I have feet so I can come to you whenever I like, to visit you when you call and be with you if and when you so desired; I will keep you company, I promise you that—cuddle you in despair and care for you when hurt—share my friendship in your most lonely, isolated moments in life.
I have horns yet shorn to remind me of what I am and who I am once: not perfect, not blessed, not gifted or even mystical; not an angel, a saint, or an almighty god but a devil still, and only in your sad, beautiful eyes.
I am a friend, as if you need to be reminded of that—a brother, father, uncle to anyone who would care and return the favour as such—be my sister, mother, aunt when they see and understand what I am at first glance.
I am here and not really here; a guest and an observer who is most pleased and entertained by your unwavering interest, attention, and time…Your unfaltering gaze of wonderment and disbelief honours me, sweetened by your unadulterated smile.
I am love, and loving every breath of it…Only for you, and each and everyone else who offers a heartfelt lie, my friend.
For any passers-by curious enough on a clear day to get caught admiring the ancient fountain without looking directly at the imposing threat of the figure high above its pedestal with an arrow pointed straight at one’s heart, she or he can read—or perhaps, discern only by an erring eye—the ode above probably inscribed by the sculptor, or maybe, by a supernatural hand etching the warning on granite, describing with unabashed pride an all-consuming semblance of beauty undeniable in its malevolent disguise.
(Excerpt from the Epilogue of my horror-sex-fantasy novel in progress: “The Fountain of Lies”.)