Meanings

'Fiend!' they shrieked - at the top of their voice,
Boiling in the fumes of disgust - despise,
On chains and wrapped in a shroud,
Thence, he was brought forth amidst the crowd,

 Smiling he rose, smiling he waved,
Posing the shackles and the cuts it gave,
"Thank you", said he - clear and loud,
And, waved at the joyous - raving crowd.

Therein the commotion does entail -
Some fail to rise, he rose to fail.
And, then, he bowed and he vowed,
As the anger rose still amidst the crowed.

Then anger said, "You will not live"
Then anger said, "This is what you get".
"I don't ask for anything but I offer to give"
"None need remember but none ever forget -"

From a puddle a grain of dirt shines,
From a puddle a swine dines,
From a puddle a lotus blooms,
From a puddle a cattle grooms.

If it were not for the ugly us,
None would enjoy this casual fuss,
If it were not for this truth mere,
None of us would be looming here.

Let there be darkness, for the sun is bound to shine,
Let there be no sorrow - this death be divine.

And, upon these words they questioned his sanity,
And anger grew to the heights of profanity.
But, his fate was signed, the job was done,
And, a soldier was lost, forever gone.

Treasures

Some commotion leaves a mark on all,
Some fail to thrive, some thrive to fall.
Some disquisition end on bitter sparks,
Some end on a start of a new recall.

Somehow this noise irritates all us men -
"What did we loose and what can we gain?"
Some trifles conquer our wishful remarks,
Some ask us not to repeat them again.

But, sorrow always has an elegant show,
To teach us what we don't already know -
That all the remorse we hide inside,
With time and trust, she will but grow.

Some lessons end on a bitter appeal,
Some teach us to read more still,
Some tell us what treasures we lost,
And, some - what we all miss the most.

So, some stories end on mourns and cries,
Some end on darkness - on blood and lies,
Some end and to it - there is no meaning.
And, still they teach us of life and the illusion seeming.

Flight

The wind's beneath her wings, she flies, she flutters she sings,

She chirps her way dining on what the howling wind brings,

She won't stop today, she won't have it any other way,

This day can't make her sad now - try as hard as it may.

A few flaps, and up she flies up on the clouds and into the sky,

She doesn't hold back any more - today, she's not shy,

The rain falls on her beak, on her wings wetting her feathers,

But, it makes her happy, see - she sings of this harsh weather,

Blue as the sky, she glides down every once in a while,

Then flies up again, all the way with a smile,

Something in her is on fire see - she won't stop,

No, she won't - not until she has reached the top.

The Time has gone

It all makes sense now. Every piece of puzzle laid on the floor fits together now. The time had come and so has it gone and all that remains is a shadow of it.

A theater's been shut down, now. The heart stopped beating and the trance has long been set to null - a life's ended just the same. The lights shone - yes, they did. But, up on the stage today, no roses are being thrown - there are no stones either. Yes, The performance that was staged up on the stage has ended and no voice were raised and no words were said. There are no claps - no, not until now. Now, the serenade has long been sung and deemed mediocre and set aside.

A Pity. A faint show of love and sympathy mostly. A writer's death. The narrator sobs in silence as the curtains fall. The heroine dances all the same but the heart remains untouched and even the drools seem to have dried off and all that remains is stains on the collars of the mindless audience who can but perspire in silence. Yes, there is a silence now. The cries of perspiration voiced on chorus - the cries are so meek that even the vermins residing on the attic assume no human presence beneath them - they rattle hither and thither free of care and free of fear.

The hero drinks until he drops unconscious. The gates to his Juliet are open, see but the walls somehow seem taller than what they used to be - they will never be crossed again. The Old Romeo and the New Juliet won't be together ever again. The Cassanova's been arrested and whatever alien feeling overtook the sub conscious has retreated from its way. Solemnity has bred a new form of exasperation and the fumes of this insanity takes over the well behaved citizens and throws the city into chaos. Cowardice and fear reign the blind horse and the stage creaks in silence - perhaps in anticipation of the fall immitent.

Games and rehearsals and stories are no longer told - no longer appreciated - the curtains fall, see and not even a voice of acknowledgement can be heard. Almost as if none of it ever happened.

There is a hollow in the plot now - an ocean in the heart. The dirt of failure means as much as the glamour of success - nothing. Words of flirts and flatter, love and hate have long been settled and sworn to be kept unheard and un-felt. The time has come and so has it gone - a faded hue - a trace remains as a grim silhouette - and, a reflection of self claims - it will all be forgotten some day.

The time has gone.