A restlessness, for an
emotion undone and untouched
A freedom yet
unreached, binds me to the irrelevance
A fear craving for a
disaster, imagined throughout
A relief unwanted from the deepest trusts,
A waste of time? Or a
disgust of masochism?
Or imagined days of
futile frustrations?
Quietness or a depth
of solitude or a dreaded lust
Seemed to play the
symphonies of passions
Lived it like a dog,
of chances never to be returned
And now I thrive on
the defeated times, alone in a mutiny within
Excitements of slight
music, progressed with the beats of dizziness
Yet awake, waiting for
the rhythms of madness
For the lost, or maybe
unknown, or a bit clarity
Randomness, of the
staggering outbursts,
Yet none to hear, none
to feel
A solitude, yes a
solitude, but with touches and fragrances
Of a passion
unearthed, yet to be manifested
A passion for madness
indeed, with no consequence
Not of a repute, but
of a satisfaction,
A source of mysterious
peace, a gain indeed
Destiny or an
appetite? I never know,
But as time indeed,
beliefs remain meaningless
I don’t pray, nor do
I believe in miracles
I do believe in a
symphony that-
I hear each day,
I try each day,
I live each day,
Within, that brings me
to life and I breathe again.
No comments:
Post a Comment