What if Evil exits
as an antithesis of what Good can be
so as to show by counter-example how awful it is
when the Good is under-appreciated
and thus serves as a sort-of self aware hypocritical advertisement
for the antithesis of the antithesis,
which is, simply, to be Good?

Whispers of heavenly death, murmur’d I hear;
Labial gossip of night—sibilant chorals;
Footsteps gently ascending—mystical breezes, wafted soft and low;
Ripples of unseen rivers—tides of a current, flowing, forever flowing;
(Or is it the plashing of tears? the measureless waters of human tears?)

I see, just see, skyward, great cloud-masses;
Mournfully, slowly they roll, silently swelling and mixing;
With, at times, a half-dimm’d, sadden’d, far-off star,
Appearing and disappearing.

(Some parturition, rather—some solemn, immortal birth:
On the frontiers, to eyes impenetrable,
Some Soul is passing over.)

In the face of death it isn't courage that keeps you strong but the apathy of no longer holding on

the static quo must go
nothing beneath, or behind the sounds
deaf tones bones strewn all around

long words, all cheap
dumb lines, all neat

coughed-up cadence and routine cream
cartoon choruses and tricked-out seams

hooky fakes and bookend breaks
easy gaits
minimum stakes

no sharp edge, no hidden fold
no golden age spirit, no new age soul
no color streaks, or manic peaks
no blind side streets, or bipolar beats

disconnect my wires, or else cut it off
put out my fire, or else cut it off

nothing sticks
nothing clicks
**** me quick

wind of summer
too vagabond
drunk
touching the melancholy afternoon
of the last pale season

flowing over the
deep yellow barren field
echoing the last mystic sound
though yet romantic
spring
the purples are deep
divine

butterflies are flying around
a few birds playing
on the ground
suddenly singing
uttering love

yellow
the golden yellow floating
in the eyes  
over hued
saturated

dropping on the ignored
dry
wither leaves
as the rain drops that has made
a blue
day dream

crossing over the mind  
a jingle
leap singing
classic
the very lost spring
scrolling into
soul

even in the lonely dark night
rolling up
the sound
as the rolling stone
of the sounding sea

@Musfiq us shaleheen