Beyond the long hours of silence, a feeble shriek of wisdom longs for salvation.
The truth in the name is miniscule, yet it desires the fame of the burning sky.
Innocence attained martyrdom, in the struggling years of tenderness.
The magma is there, that craves for a vent to flow the placid resentment out.
The mask that had always been, is eventually losing its gleam.
Behind is an image, dreary and desperate for one lost identity.
The hands weep in the loneliness of vacuum, in search of one touch of belongingness.
False does everything seem to me.
Mortal do I see in my Hero's statue.
Lost is the direction, in the sand of My time.
Yet again I stand, Yet again I fight.
Yet again I say, I'll wait..
Wait for the light that shines my sweat,
Wait for the time that smiles my way,
Wait for those hands that take me there....
4 comments:
wonderful piece of work, must be published as one of the modern day gems....
not that good i know... still thanks..
Nice one i like your choice of words and the deep meanings ...
thank u arun
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