Why do the things stand in a still,
Like molten lava, raging fire just turned pale,
On snale’s pace, seemingly stagnant,
Impossible to make a print, an impression on belinguried wall.
Long last, things like that are forgettion,
Like a continuous thumping on a human face,
Disgrace does it, knowing it and still not doing it,
Work, pride and pleasure as the word is out in open.
Look above the empty sky, emptied even by skylarks,
No food for thought in an emptied poison,
Cauldron of lust when asked to throw in public,
Wasn’t welcomed as frankness but disgust and displeasure.
Yet fulfilling, breathing on our part, for things,
Lingering in the corner of our backyard, never to say,
To pray that a time no willing to restore for pleasantries,
Asking what’s the meaning of these lines, in awe, with questions more.
To even look back here, trying to make sense,
Of things, yet pending as if waiting replacement,
A impression of opened wounds, opened exploitation,
A past, long willing to just skip, for the things that matter.