Awake on a numb dark night he wonders--
tired cells of his existence blazing
on fiery topanga in crushed slumber.
Anxious, chained, gasping at barriers
of individuality or a species that contain
appeasements in layered singularities
or contradictions in linear multitudes.
He drags himself to a paraphernalia,
his search for conquests shivers
in tangled cobwebs his fingers dance
to grand designs of his fantasies.
Oh! how he habitually gets drenched
in warm showers of colliding galaxies,
exploding curses of humanity in hammock,
Aesop's fables plagued in sloth.
His trembling raptures of oceans azure
send chills down the spine of raging coal.
Elevators of his dark realities push him
to take a fall as the Lady of Shalott
atop old cliff of his clueless journeys,
burning humanity, wars, paranoia but wait--
blurred visions of forgotten land arise,
painted from a million oscillations in cosmos,
unwritten pages of blood red stories
crushed and absorbed in soils of time,
simmered to vapors of hopes on his mind--
his fingers dance to tunes of a faint voice,
a dead soul sings amid a snowstorm,
'Oh come crushed souls, let's sleep tonight,
tomorrow you'll squeeze some lost hope in light'.
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