All in silver and grey
in the dying bed:
Sometime the cavalier of a flying horse,
sometimes sliding on the clouds, upon his aspirations sleigh,
and to the angels of firmament
throwing the bouquets
of his glorious days,
Sometime staring at his blighted mirror
beholding through the panorama
of a living
falling into
decay.
Alas
a listless stream
that still repeats its once broad runway,
a stream,
that at its last throbs
sinking
in to clay!
Alas
a book threadbare,
filled with words of wisdom and just,
on its cover eroding away turning to crusts
breaking to rust,
but from within
the words combust and glow
brimming of stardust!
Alas
the vestige of
sewing machine of pain
on the fabric of time,
the paradox of survival and to spurn
to soaking in slime!
holding to your whiteness,
in the grey world of pollution and grime,
being true to yourself
while putting the mask of mimicry and mime,
in the world that being authentic is pure madness and crime!
Alas
holding on unrolling,
the scroll of an ideal paradigm,
that inclines to roll back scrolling,
on a dime!
Alas the poetical sway at the doorway,
of to be, to dry like a butterfly
on the pin of a spotlight display,
or not to be,
to burn and fade away
in the brilliant rays
of the soul
of effulgent days,
or encircling like the water,
in a river
that in all its going
ditches its runway to stay!
Alas
a relentless decrease,
from dusk to dawn,
to perish away
and to, on tombstone of life
engraving
your say!
