| A subtle condescension writhes, twitches, and finds a painful passage in words
Do words serve any purporse other than confusion? Yet, many mar their hours to find pleasure, To search for game in the depths of obscure language. After all, where is the fun in being forthcoming? Nobody wants to hear the gray truth. Is it really that gray? Even after a night's worth of blemished sauciness? Did reason go to sleep? Tell it, it's not time to wake up yet. The flame burns, ink melts on paper, Dissolving dilemmas for a good night's sleep, but, Nights find me walking empty roads, Whispering to the moon, lost in thought beyond senses... Luring shadows, pitch black, mocking at my plight... Between the deep blue sea and the devil, whom would you choose? Maybe the waters seems appealing, but Satan has proposed a deal I cannot refuse. Yet, to give into that temptation, And lose my love for the thirst that which has kept me alive for so long And then to be left in waters that one betrayed? Who will come to the rescue? Some mornings I wake up to touch the rays As they fall on the dew that dawn left as it bid its goodbyes. Night's gone. Dawn's gone. It's morning. "Will you wake up reason, honey? It's time." "Soon... soon." - Purti Awal, 2006 |
| Not Yet
Dedication: My inbox Inspiration: The confusion and misunderstanding that prevails despite the existance of language |