There is a time when thought itself is a cumbersome endeavour, having to listen intently to inner voices speculating about life and its pitfalls, all of them dissonant and melancholy, indebted to the tyranny of being devoid options.
This frugal yearning for yokes to yield, so as all can fend for dear mouths not fed with words nor flowers.
It is at such ungodly hours that birth becomes a questionable culprit in a cosmic joke, another chore destined for ill-equipped posers in life’s mirror.
A distracted world watches mirages over sands of time, haunted journeys veering off-course and millions of secrets fumbling in dark corners of a globe in tatters.
Titillated by yearnings for comfort, a life resplendent with promise…an occasion for repose, would that be imputed the meek and obedient, who follow the twin of stars in revolving skies?
Why this long ant-trail over lips of graves waiting for departures of our branded hearts from this wheel of sanctioned chances?
What eloquent terrors awake in our slumber, us the defeated soldiers brandishing torn flags of allegaince with the living and the dead?
No comments:
Post a Comment