Untimely burns always your flagrant flame
Demise - tormentor of my nights,
You tossed my shade against the falls
And much I have marveled sinking into your depths.
There are sufficient nails for each heart to stab
And enough rope for every throat to crush.
When truth's blaze inflicts the fever of countless suns
The nobler of all sentiments remains the loathing of oneself.
Falsehood is nothing but a mild pill to swallow.
Amidst every surge of a thousand dreams befalls a sanctuary of bones.
Declaring war on Neptune is no more far-fetched than the prospect
of appointing a scapegoat to endure the sins of others,
In hopes of attaining forgiveness and salvation.
There is no victory, but a desperate sense of heroism,
Collapsing into mercurial reflections of a decaying sanity.
Defiance becomes nought but a metonym for fear.
Sleep is the manifestation of our longing for death,
When life boils the cancer which imprisons the moment.
A senseless chase towards a beacon of ill-defined worth,
where delusion is hurled like crumbs to feed the endlessly famished laughter -
Endowed with admiration are the apostles of Santhara.
I wished the Sun away,
I wished for its demise.
I prayed for mist to lay, cleanse everything that lies.
On ground or high above, no sign of the wondrous dove.
There is, however, passionless draught and rain.
I feel as if each drop is smoldering my pain.
