|Image : 'I hate humans'|
Courtesy : bendragon.blogspot.com
Buried in a self created grave
Where the world lay in deep sleep,
Between undiluted wrath which
Pours pangs of targeted grief,
Our habits are allowed for torture.
What we retrieve as memoirs are
Uneventful days of passionate dreams,
When Eros flew around to spread a
Golden weave of lust, to entrap
Our innocent thoughts and poison
It with a dark potion of grudge.
As the poison spread, we fall
Into a trance devoid of charm,
Which we later coin as a slip
Towards the gorges of love,
But what the mind let pass,
Is the slow death of a comrade.
Can we cipher the unwritten
Words out of our past?
Could we pen it down like
A poet? Maybe then we would
Glimpse the grave where we lie, and
Rediscover our thoughts before they die.