Dead cold morning he despised, every time he saw his face in the settled mist, of the second month. He walks as if he had stored his contempt within himself. Pursed lips, which feebly hold the roll, forces the tobacco to smog him to clarity. Walking down the lane as many others have he stops to correct his bad posture. Soon before he realizes it over takes him. Ruffling his beard and his stubble makes him think about all the enemies that had sworn against his beliefs. As he walks again the yellow line, never had he felt so naked, in the warmth of his tux of complete black. Being a creature of Yin he is left shivering on the open road. No house has he seen yet that comforts him. Static in his head disturbs him as he wrestles with his demented coiffure against the winds of shame. Feeling beat up he has lost the hope and means of reproducing him. To see the eyes that shine with his name in them. To be theirs. Succumbing to his own reality he makes his away from inside to know what’s left of his outside. The yellow trail never makes him loose mark. He needs that instant drive to kill him. Something that prolongs his misery but also provide him with a need to show them. The world that he praised, the world that he dreamt of making one. Now turns to be a curator to his own epitaph. To show with contempt what he brazes when he make something far apart one.
One Muddled Lie.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Lucknow Misanthropy
Swoon today for Better tomorrow
Not may endure the reprise,
The judicial curse of unqualified horror
Cert it does lead to emasculated demise.
Wake up to the dimming advent to the most wretched dignitaries. The truth and the lie, that consumes every eon existing far beyond the fathomable measure of any cyclical process of nature. To relive to a glob of evanescent energy everyday has left me tired. Every night I pray for my Death, which lives, beyond any repercussion of the cadaverous anthologies setup by the structural measure of time.
Foresee, Forgo,
Forbid, Forlorn.
Justice does not hold true for us who foresee the pallid fallacies of the moribund times. It is hard to believe that such an era lacking in vitality and essence of life could, with such brute force, take command of survival and existence. Comfort comes to those who by petulant reasons choose a ‘clink’ over a ‘sigh’.
Forlorn are those who cannot see their faltered steps aching towards their desirable itch of insolent cravings deriding the need for happiness for everyone.
This milieu of my morbid reality now forbids me to write further as it did strike upon the compassion herald on my every altar of humor.
Not may endure the reprise,
The judicial curse of unqualified horror
Cert it does lead to emasculated demise.
Wake up to the dimming advent to the most wretched dignitaries. The truth and the lie, that consumes every eon existing far beyond the fathomable measure of any cyclical process of nature. To relive to a glob of evanescent energy everyday has left me tired. Every night I pray for my Death, which lives, beyond any repercussion of the cadaverous anthologies setup by the structural measure of time.
Foresee, Forgo,
Forbid, Forlorn.
Justice does not hold true for us who foresee the pallid fallacies of the moribund times. It is hard to believe that such an era lacking in vitality and essence of life could, with such brute force, take command of survival and existence. Comfort comes to those who by petulant reasons choose a ‘clink’ over a ‘sigh’.
Forlorn are those who cannot see their faltered steps aching towards their desirable itch of insolent cravings deriding the need for happiness for everyone.
This milieu of my morbid reality now forbids me to write further as it did strike upon the compassion herald on my every altar of humor.
Life Without a Picket
How about dissolving a well nurtured place in life to revive your passions anew?
How about living in a place where you have nothing to live for?
How about giving up everything that you had lived for?
Well the direction where my life is going I do not know, but it is certainly a direction I deserve.
How I wanted so badly the way to be having the best of everything but now it is very bland, insipid. Simple, I cannot live in this moribund life. There is more than the veil of my covered glance gilded by the silhouette of money and many fragrances of materialism.
But there are facades of living a life like this. To buy things at my own ease, to look the best with what I have, to learn more. Realizing still that money is still a major part of a human’s life. Had I not had it I wouldn’t have had been on this computer writing my heart’s insecurity. I know that I have to be thankful for everything that has made my ease possible. I know but it was something I never wanted. How I wish that education came easy without a cost in this world. And I would strive to give back to the world what I earned from it. I am no educator by any means and I cannot be a good one. They are but worth their part of wisdom and I will give them.
Illusion of Loving Desolation
Is it the simering of the flame,
Or the dwindle in my eyes;
For my vision is dry –
But, with meager moisture,
My search posed to surrender;
Pour from your eyes into mine,
Most brilliantly red robe of wine;
Is in your heart a famine -
Or in mine, a crime.
Or the dwindle in my eyes;
For my vision is dry –
But, with meager moisture,
My search posed to surrender;
Pour from your eyes into mine,
Most brilliantly red robe of wine;
Is in your heart a famine -
Or in mine, a crime.
Humanitarian Vaccum
Every dew of that single human voice.
Is filled with a hollow speech,
And Nature, its voiceless mother tongue,
Saying of itself, weighs so much.
Here, orphaned from my Mother,
My Nature.
Is filled with a hollow speech,
And Nature, its voiceless mother tongue,
Saying of itself, weighs so much.
Here, orphaned from my Mother,
My Nature.
Fare Thee Well
Fare thee Well!
I walk backwards, not to see;
The Present,
To bear the vision of my past,
Shuffle harder.
Against the institutions of my Future;
I walk backwards (a stringent stride),
As my antediluvian thoughts hit harder this time.
I walk backwards, not to see;
The Present,
To bear the vision of my past,
Shuffle harder.
Against the institutions of my Future;
I walk backwards (a stringent stride),
As my antediluvian thoughts hit harder this time.
Autumn Chore
Skin and its Earth finally find warmth;
As the autumn coaxes it
To the ruddy blush,
Incensed passion rising into my mind,
Lusting, with a new passion, my rust.
As the autumn coaxes it
To the ruddy blush,
Incensed passion rising into my mind,
Lusting, with a new passion, my rust.
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