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My origin is the fall of a leaf

   Upon the midnight sand

That skips a torment's breath

   To paint an art so grand !


Bring upon me the wraths

   Ominous to the monarchy

That my existence blooms with

   To sniff the birth of me


The chronicles of diadem

  I carry in my palms 

 Which bear lost melodies

  Sung as in psalms


The world's a street of spirits 

   Emblazoned with woeful a giggle ,

In the gaze so infernal

   All the dark sights shall I juggle


The halo of lightning and dust

   Pirouette in merry blues -

Even over the tombstone

   Where I be my muse !





The urn at the center, do you see?

Where the faint sunlight of dusk

Gathers to narrate some tales

Which are not written anywhere

But over the petals-

Dark and covetous,

Of the flowers that bloom in the season

Constructed by many as "Failures"

But over time I've garnered every bit,

Every moment when I felt like giving up,

When my pink bones and milk teeth

Called for a revolution

  Against the existence in fractions

To grow up whole once more

  And cling to the torn threads

Painted in red

  With the blood and sweat

And catalysts to the onset of a berserk


I water the flowers 

 And cherish the fragrance

That takes birth when the sun sets;

And the gale breaks in

Screaming the euthanasia of past

And darkness 

Fluking the contours of the urn

To wake me up with the dawn

Once more!


Shall we sit down at the shrine 

Where it all may end up well ,

We'll count seconds amidst the roar

And dig deeper than before

With a tight grasp of the last night

To see the burnt cigars in floating lungs

To hear the wine bottles roll inside cellared livers


Shall we sit down at the shrine

Where in a solitary bliss found anew -

Will answers pop a purpose like soft balloons

Pricked by a needle blown into air ,

In vacant waves they'll fly fair

For an art to find that is hidden

In a shroud of lofty revolutions 


Shall we sit down amidst stories

Listening and making others listen

About wars for corroded peace 

About changing beliefs and broken trusts,

As we feel the setting sun and rising moon

As we mourn for the lost soon

Just to begin with an end


Shall we drown in the muddy grave

Worshipping the dead breaths of our own -

So frail and broken free like dust traces

Near fallen pillars which stood in pride , once

For years in a race run by rats to feed intestines

And here not to plead to you , my Lord

We pay ourselves rotten , to Death 

I celebrate the birth of death

With a cut piece of cake

Upon a chiffon cover so neat

And a welcome song so rare

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