(WC)
The colossal undertones of sacred serenity engulfed the deepest pores, the faintest linings, even the dormant epidermis, mucus and memories. The rush was soft, swift but overpowering, cheerfully acrid and terribly dry. Like those million colourful butterflies without a scent or name, galloping about the thin strands of heavy air. Calm was all it was.
Cosmic death was collecting her souvenirs. She picked up the marrows and defaced effigies of futility. She was in no hurry, though she had much to to.
'How red is my river? '
His duty obfuscated such an inquiry from his moral medulla. he crossed heaps of hardened muscles and unacknowledged bravery, of patient wives and wide-eyed progeny, who would script the days of yore. All dust, cheap dust, easily blown.
Known faces and acquaintances ushered him with a glance that was stiff, stern, capturing a passion that transgressed order or pedigree. It was savagery.
It was war.
Among those strewn was a silent boy, brave, who had embraced the cheer of the world beyond; but not death. No, not death.
Convulsion hit him hard.
'How black is my soul? '
So murmured Arjun in a strange fixation as he passed out into wretched oblivion, putrid silence of the morning sun and an unthankful victory.
__________________
Credit/ Cornerstone : A nameless instrumental ballad.
The colossal undertones of sacred serenity engulfed the deepest pores, the faintest linings, even the dormant epidermis, mucus and memories. The rush was soft, swift but overpowering, cheerfully acrid and terribly dry. Like those million colourful butterflies without a scent or name, galloping about the thin strands of heavy air. Calm was all it was.
Cosmic death was collecting her souvenirs. She picked up the marrows and defaced effigies of futility. She was in no hurry, though she had much to to.
'How red is my river? '
His duty obfuscated such an inquiry from his moral medulla. he crossed heaps of hardened muscles and unacknowledged bravery, of patient wives and wide-eyed progeny, who would script the days of yore. All dust, cheap dust, easily blown.
Known faces and acquaintances ushered him with a glance that was stiff, stern, capturing a passion that transgressed order or pedigree. It was savagery.
It was war.
Among those strewn was a silent boy, brave, who had embraced the cheer of the world beyond; but not death. No, not death.
Convulsion hit him hard.
'How black is my soul? '
So murmured Arjun in a strange fixation as he passed out into wretched oblivion, putrid silence of the morning sun and an unthankful victory.
__________________
Credit/ Cornerstone : A nameless instrumental ballad.
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