The Map

There's a world map, invisible, unmarked
A map where a set of feet wants to stand,
There're burning desires along the form
A hollow burning life, cautioned endlessly
Through merciless sleepless nights.

Life, a mere box of gunpowder;
Sold for a penny, that too a tad older,
Not even a dime's worth, globetrotter!
Set thousands of these on fire
The map is only a next door vampire.

A tale of two stories : a story of despair,
A story of madness, but who cares?

Flags burn, bodies burn, time burns
Whatever can burn returns to the urn.

The map lives on.
Else, everything burns.
The map lives on.
Anyway everything burns.