Priorities break away.
The option remains.
In the verge of decay,
panegyrics parellel reality.
Skeletons wander
in search of spines.
At the stroke of midnight
I forfeit to the yells of wisdom
then, forcible thoughts
to summarise my ‘self’.
The verdict for perdition hangs
across the arteries.
Alas! I wander in the mirage
of a utopian desert,
with no hunger
with no thirst
but desire for the fire.
To the savior, I graph
the hundred routes of tears.
Hold it in palm, for a light unseen,
packed with those rarities of smiles.
And I tear away the decorated armour.
pummel the skinny sceptre,
punch the sprout of wishes
getting ready to end up.
My virgin dirge then echoes in air
(I had been writing it since my birth):
“Repent…You must repent
Or you shall be born again
Repent…You must repent
Or you shall not end up.
In the fury of ashy smoke
Ere your red flesh bursts
Repent…You must repent
Repent…atleast… repent.”
Theatre dismissed.
The stage perishes.
And the epitaph:
“The rhetoric snores”.
Full stop.