Rage Onto the Fire Till No Spark Burnt

To choose a moment to define, or defile my memory
is to break away from my own malady.
It exists as a plain that can’t undo
(the denial of paraphrased) telling me how to redo

To alter the banal hope through my imagination
To create a bird I find worthy to fly to

I can’t chance upon my variance in the ugliness;
it is and was to find some meaning in ignorance.
While all lit to retire the legible mind
I had a complete collapse to wire my challaned voice

In a glorious flame my mind brought all the queries
To brittle bum all and burn my wits to bits
So moon thought up of a motto for me
So the little I knew flared to become mean

Little did I hear in my overture
I was on a plain attesting to my filter
Heard when about my own jeopardy
the Ill sighted decided to decode my apathy

I kneeled through the night to my own demons
An hour, was it?! I felt the night on a collage
making me trill on to a surprised melody
I heard numbed stones speak up of satiety

Bits shrill into a lethargy
Writs wrought into an apology

I decided plain words were too true to be believed –
men and their naiveté in a plight to savor me

All about the weather, the thrill had me
The time to die had a frill to free me

The alarm sounded in a thunder
I was burned before I could even shudder

The call to time my own rhythm had me on a wheel –
the spokes spell in its reel a vacancy

I trolled my demons until no truth could churn a secret
I was hurled into a sold dream, the words sounded off brittle

It hushed and it chirped
It spooned and swooned me out of my attires

To don a dress to deal my distress
I could save me if I could head myself

In the pleads of plaits I sewed a seven wreath
The shanty shunned my every reality
I saw my men in every shade of grey
They were drawn by a facade I brought to mend

Little did I know of psyche going psyched with a scythe
Now I know; it brings with it a heaving flair to wreck the creak
Out of satire booms a bleed
And my heart goes out of all leaps

Still it caves through the crook
By craving it settles all its moods
In due die of dice rattles in its rues
Still I rhyme my walk in a truce

© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2018

Image – Neanderthal Cave Art

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