Friday, September 3, 2010

Catacomb of something

When nothing is felt,
Where the mind does not vet,
Where knowledge is subsidiary,
To the unknown anxiety.

Where the future is bleak,
And remorse ridden.
Where today is torpid,
Motionless and dishevelled.

Where a panic seizes,
Where the rational ceases.
Where a second is infinite,
Where the thinking is deliberate.

Where the wishes are dead,
Where the wants are poisonously fed.
Where the urge to break free,
Is tamed and packed neat.

Where the anger is akin,
To hopeless vanity.
Where the supposed love,
Is rendered traceless and smelt.

Where hope is a dying ant,
Who can be crushed out of misery.
Where joy is a rotting flower,
Crumbling away with its purpose.

Catacomb of something.
Where words walk into phrases,
Where meanings are born,
Where restrain is felt upon.

A single full stop,
Curtails today and morrow.
A single question,
Leaves you bent with sorrow.

A singular dot upon the 'I'.
Maybe a part of me cut aside.
What can gravitate actions,
And uphold justice without vengeance?

This valve of reason,
Presumed eternal, yet capricious.
Whose tempers wary,
Like the wrath of insanity.

In a labyrinth of darkness,
Where measures no more exist.
The walls are all gone,
There is nothing to stare upon.

The silence strew with noises,
The mind hopes to be riotous.
Yet a hand squishes,
And stupefied!

A breath of air, speaks,
Of life and wondrous regimes.
The days of war and tyranny.
Of love and its irony.

In this catacomb lies,
A soul waiting to arise.
Free it, oh! wise men,
Women and children!

Let the wings span!
Oh! knock the stones
Away, push the worms
Astray! Let the soul rise!

But none can hear,
For the darkness absorbs.
Here it perishes,
On this sad day.

Alone and friendless.
Young and mysterious.
What is justice?
But poetic.

The light shines the brightest
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