The effervescent night cries its silent lullabies
the chroniclers of substance note the last hymn
Of stories of Hope and chivalry of men long lost
to an undefined catharsis of bygone memories.
It hurts to envisage the past.
The hungry eyes of the man and that of the child,
two different worlds,they highlight
and yet the Hunger seeps off the rest
the only survivor is the victim of the two.
It hurts to resonate the echoing silences.
Tamed fear like a tear drop, falls gently
like the clattering of the crockery,left unwashed
after the innuendo of the extravaganza
A celebration of another worldly discourse-now faded and lost.
It hurts to laugh when you wish to smile.
Lament, with age grows like coal on fire
slowly extinguishing within its own lingering gray
As it dissolves sublimely into the air
Like a mirage through a raindrop, suspended like a prayer.
It hurts,
It hurts to be Me.
