I am the stillborn son of war,
Strapped on to an unmanned chariot of unrealized dreams;
Ever Since I was born as the heir ,
To the twin kingdoms of hypothetics and hypocrisy.

I am a silent sculpture,
Of the broken skeletons of sorrow,
Nourished by the blood of the vanquished,
And meant to unite the mourners on the banks of defeat,
Under a common cause.

I am an unopened letter of sympathy,
Waiting,
For the last tear drop on the armor of the vanquished to dry .
I am the final abandoned fresco,
Fading to obscurity;
As it graces the crumbling walls,
In the Chapel of fallen hopes.

I am the moan of the heart ,
Where the echoes of my prophecy,
Have greeted celebrations of existence,
Long before I was born to die.

I am the chant.
Immortalized.
Immorralized .
By the reverend voices that preached ,
From the pulpits of divine demagogues.

I am the invincible myth,
Inheritance of abstracts afar,
For I was christened Peace ,
The stillborn son of war.

The creaking of ,
The staircase plank ;
The stubborn stench,
Of the ale we drank ;
The surreal smile
Of the carpet stain ;
Are the muses that drive ,
Verses of pain .

When the fruits of blindness,
Ripen red;
When fading memories,
Yield up the dead;
Then the potion of regret,
Begins to be brewed ;
Even by Silver Sorcerers,
Of Fallen Solitude.

In the shadow ,
Of every page i tear ;
Your halcyon laughter,
Is all i hear;
For behind the veil,
That hides the scar;
I trace the footsteps ,
To a heart afar .

‘Arson’,
Cries the enslaved gunpowder path ,
That bridged our realms , of love and lust;
For beyond the rubbles , of Cupid’s wrath,
We are but orphan specks of dust.

So now,
Dwell we in the realms ,of those forgotten,
And to every legend , vanquished by rust,
Remind with verses bold , bitter but seldom rotten,
That We are but orphan specks of dust .

For every silent ballad
Raging in distant lands ;
For  every broken dream
Swallowed in temporal sands;
For  every dewdrop that will never burst ;
We are but orphan specks of dust .

You didn’t just break a mirror today.
Go Ask the shards of broken dreams .
Which lie ebbing away on the marble floor ,
Painted crimson by your hands ;
And you will hear them whisper,
The susurration of the fallen .
The susurration  of truth .
Heart them narrate
A tale of the vanquished .
For that is all I am ,
Vanquished .
Spent.
And Quashed .
Like the demons of desire,
Living a life of Denial,
In your hooded eyes .

You didn’t just break a mirror today,
You shattered the only abstract left in my shallow world.
You shattered my occult hope ;
An abstract alien to cynics ,
Of life , love and all that once made us celebrate our kind.
But the reviving spirit ,
For someone who has everything to lose.

You didn’t just break a mirror today .
You broke my silent mistress,
A lover who witnessed more than you ever did.
A mate who knew more than you ever will.
And yet ,
Who Never did judge .
And know these love ,
Its death will not wipe the slates of memory clean  .
For  the bitter wine spilt last night;
Has stained us .
But also ,
Has reminded us .
Of what we could be , but never will be.

You didn’t just break a mirror today .
Ask the pieces of your broken image,
That beg clemency from your shrine .
A Shrine of solitude you have built for yourself.

You didn’t just break a mirror today ,
You broke yourself.

We should have parted ways ,  
Like we parted lips
For were we the makers ,  
Of our bitter eclipse

And Now .
The Strings lie silent
And forgotten,
My muse is dead,
And the memories have rotten.
The dawn of the dusk
Is now on our hands,
As solitude greets
From stranger’s stands.

So.
The music of solitude,
Will await  no dancer;
We were our questions,
But are we our answers?

you don’t deserve to be here. you’re not crazy, your heart is just shattered to pieces far too small to put together again. i’m sorry.