Decay

Decay;
Through the branches of truth and desire,
The lonely eyes which search for solace
Leave a stench through time; A game of lies
And dies; the Sun roasts the leaves of cries
The amalgamate, the alloy of eternity; Decay.

Underneath your skin, it flows through the vessels
Igniting even the most singular of deformities
Within you; your soul, helplessly poor in the racism
Of companionship, champions in misery; Decay.

What, I wonder today is a decay?
For everything eternal, speaks but
Of the one and only  truth; the Circle.
Or does there too wait just another coating
Another peel, entangled in self similarity?
Is it then a shadow game of concentric circles?
Or is there an unending decay waiting to happen?

But if not a decay, if not a decay
How much mystery does a pyramid detain?

A Homage to the Faded Yellow

To all the faded yellow of my stories,
A song floats backwards in full glory
Fitting along the lines to ease the misery
For the faded part is love, yellow being me.

Sounds similar to the tunes of long past notify
My screen as a new evening dawns beneath the sky
In a land where dusk never really settles,
Fairytales, like a water cannon drench me in Sunlight.

Like a matchstick that burns more than its peers
Like a woman who shines over an indistinguishable chorus
Like a raindrop that evaporates before hitting the tar
Like a traveler who remains in each destination forever ...

You are that moment which weighs more than any souvenir.

Dividend, Divisors and Remainders

What remains of an evening which comes but late at night?
What happens to a cloud-covered glorious star riddled sky?
Which tune does the cool breeze hum as silence settles on eyes?
Why does the Sun run faster here? What will remain of its light?

For those who are rich in their possession of time
Must know that time lies, like every other beautiful line
Like a poet who unabashedly demands a reader's loyalty
But refuses the same in return lest truth descends on eyes.

And what remains of the poet when the evening arrives for him
With a wind so chilling that he dare not stand by the window?
He leaves the world to itself, for to each world its own;
A fish struggles with the bait until it's the string or the neck.

SO WHAT REMAINS?