I am held captive by two knives -
the morality I was taught and
my incapacity of being a judge in the absence of one.
Writing cools my jitters,
ravishing on my insecurities.
Language makes it stale,
emotions make it tolerable.
But the demise of those agonies
at the ejection of these ink marks
makes the flutter of my hopes
all the more worth dreaming.
Withdrawal from the worldly toils
seems the preposterous alternative
as the wishes of my past
indoctrinated by the discipline of the present
kills the very throng of the coming!
Pursuing the procession of the ballads
felicitating the chronological fallacies
that maketh this tryst with existence,
I forego every music of the senses
in the regality of past reminiscences.
The ill lit corridors of the past
where justice was left unpronounceable
stream past the memorabilia of the times
like morose twining's of perplexed neurons
jammed clueless in the ironies of discord!
Why will the world mourn
the private insignia of demoralized humans
when the act of being one
was so stupendously coveted
by the obsession of the ego!
Bandits recruit psalms of the fainthearted
luring the scions of past held tortures
to blame the misery of existence
as if the crime wasn't theirs!
Bell tolls everywhere while the ballad resides
into the corners of the gregarious memory
waiting for it to be recalled
when under the shots of depression!
Seems like there is none in the making
that can devoid man of his turmoils
thrusting the dilemma in utter remorse.
Did he conspire these emotions himself,
or was it really meant to be?
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