Unessential Existence
"Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder"
Rumi
a concrete heart now
resembles feathered textures
like a house made from lace
words which were once ignored
now wound through tormented thorns
life is like pages of petals withering in winter
and fate a butterfly without a blossom -
in an analogy of caterpillar cruelty,
predators feast upon cocoons
but in an upside world with endless doors
and disappearing stairs -
there is no where to escape
in an orchard of naked trees,
a gardener cries without seeds,
breathing, but barely existing,
like a poetic muse without his ink
colourless confetti drifting
like moonlight in daylight
his soul is a conquered fortress
an empty vase with cracks
a flame unable to kindle
his spirit is an anchored vessel
he has composed a song,
but he has no orchestra
a battered punching bag
without a boxer
he can recall when rain
poured in musical colours
when mirrors were pleasant
and shadows did not follow
time seems to reverse,
and all he can see are faces
without expression
without tender nourishment
only cold horizons flourish,
so he buries romance
into a loveless tomb.
Simple Musing
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