PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

This bonded fear bids for power, 
Will I destroy myself in valley of puppets? 
War in dreams, 
of sins and morals of masked pretentions 
wears me off. Time rolls violently 
near the periphery, before it flies away. 

One chaste run to the shadow of sorrow 
burns you alive. Sitting on a heap of sandlewood 
you turn into ashes, the sweet aroma 
drifting between its rights and wrongs, 
evasions and commitments, 
hunting for the truth. 

Great exodus of principles in green 
martyrdom, brings out the blood from the color 
of terracotta. The figures on the walls 
start talking in falling light, de-icing 
the sun, like the dust on this side of dark. 
The violence rises again.