Post #5402

Me, at every moment left tormented of drowsy moonlight. Exposes me to the scenarios unbearable to me. Precisely the flinging knives in air, chasing me all through. Mistaken as friendly whisperers until they pierce me red. To my associates, it's blood oozing from my hub. They always ignorant of there is left mere a void. Nothing left over now to be shed, as my blood and tears Have enhanced themselves to my illegally throbbing heart. Yes an illegal throbbing as we are often told. No one has the whole day left for an emotional bloodbath. The bloodbath that can certainly wash down our spangle. And lay it down for people to get it trampled under their feet. No, not that spangle to what i sometimes call an illusion. As you contend the crowd at the cost of your peace. By what doesn't belong to you but seems to be belonging So, it seems baseless sobbing over our own dead souls. As they become invisible, admirers mourning their carton. What is actually a signal of one's availability and eventually immortality. Wait! Does immortality turn them engaged with our own trade? Maybe, that's why they are deaf towards our lament. Yes, we are left wailing for what is even unknown to us! We often ignorant of the dead arranging things for us. Hahah! Things arranged for us in turn arranged by us. On the demand of nobody but merely to proceed with the flow. They flow, eventually leading us to a glossy dayspring. There everything being pretty visible to the perceptive and conscious. Now the whisperers can no more deceive me, but Alas! My wounds getting unveiled of darkness out to the world. The world of 7 billion or more, crowds chuckling at me! Their clear white enamels visible, inside a dark red clot. Not always but sometimes i am fully distressed with my being. As i am deceived of heaven leaving inside my veins a hefty mass. Of the suffering what aren't mine but surely of my being. Sufferings gradually sublimated, turning the air painful manifolds. Please! Let me rest peacefully, shutting my valves tight. Storing away the scent of sufferings in my blood all night. It is just scandalous for the modish to be a stock of misery. The era of robots ought to pull us out from cambrian infancy. Haider Ali Mir... #poem#review.