In the taunting silence, I sit and I weep ghost tears.
I open a new page lined with crystals of nature’s forgiveness.
Irregular holes widen and tear apart the lining,
And the transient glimmer disappears in a starstruck second.
I feel my heart’s nervous panting,
And I curse my submissive breaths to the time to the time that laughs me by.
Whether I crave or repent or detest or grasp the respite of another day, I can’t tell.
But I chuckle at the fact that it seems an achievement to accept the fate carved by my own hands.
And I smile the sanguine pensive smile of a hypocrite.
A pendulum swings slower than a second and the wind blows tenderly, as if the only genuine gentleness in this hardened oblivion.
Uneven, but I am thankful to see every inch of time that I waste in my own battles.
A whistle screeches and the loudspeaker distorts the peace in my whining.
The city does not sleep and nor do I,
For I have learnt that in shielding from this urban black hole to volley cracks in the truth is where the illusion of value exceeds that of lying sound in deceit.
I am dust and I am soil and my thoughts are a clay mould, and yet I live in pretence to once call myself sage.
There shall be no once, for every lie is still a truth at a different point in one’s time.
So I write for the past, I write for the future, and I write for my bickering present.
I do not add to the truth, I merely uncover, and in doing so, reason brands my withering pride a fool.