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 decays.
Alas,
a listless stream
that still repeats its once broad runway,
a stream,
that at its last throbs
is 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!
