Friday, October 14, 2011 face of that cold man

courtesy: blot art 
Some suns were burned to death
Inside of me a place called peace .

Thoughts few gross and remorse
some with cusps
of molten metal
some hanging glued to
lost forbidden melancholies
A room for any more wincing?

And so plunged into clearly deaf ears
reverberates sounds of lie
undermined promises I had
surrendered to once.

I died for sure today and I gloated
no part of me
could save the day
I had you, I had your sand
between the fingers
then it slipped away.

Curses mocking warping my way
revelled and bound to stay
for it’s the fate
and a proof of
my frail breath of living.

Ghouls, few...
transpired above my head
few sunk...
into the deepest oceans of cognizance
some left unsaid, unkempt
hidden behind the walls
of their own shadows.

Woo I say
gosh this day
am I....
transgressing through haze?
is he, who I am
not the one...
the one to fray.

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