Nov 2020
"Promises are meant to be broken because people are broken."
The white turned pale yellow pages, the deep ink, faded writing of life's notebook. It haunts at times, shadows of past taking precedence of the moment to live in present. When the steadfast silence grows, the voice echoes, drawing a flashback of series of unfortunate events.
All the times I tumbled and fell in rabbit's hole, a symbol of trust, but ended up in "Godric's Deathly Hallows".
This world in indeed a magic woven, sealed blind for the innocence. People are more than what meets the eye. Trust is meant to be earned and yet I leave all the cards in their hands. I'm fond of the game and they're masters at play.
Emotions are merely face masks that are submerged in one's soul. You don't get to see the the realness in anyone. If you pulled out soul it would have nothing to reflect rather stygian. Arcane clad, a loom of lurid appearance you get hypnotised. Do you remember the first time you fell for the trap? Even as little, you were promised of certain things, never really having attained. You learnt, promises are meant to be broken but never really fathomed the depth.
Promises meant be because are
are to broken people broken.
If you stared at them you'll witness the vehement sinner lurking behind those black hole eyes siphoning to a forever land. Whatever they tell you they are, is a blatant lie.
I try to burn those pages but the magic ink never dies. Even in ashes it dances, it mocks my nature to get attached. Not once or twice but many times and still hoping to unravel the burried world.
I'm the Mad Hatter lost in bacchanal. Deluge of bedlam I incarcerated, running in circles of endless time loops.
I'm Tom Riddle's diary, that can engulf, take you down the chamber of secrets. And yet I'm denied the same privilege when it comes to explore them.
They're the "Boggart" taking forms each time a new. I could cast a "RIDDIKULUS" spell but they feed on the nothingness.
Some things change and inanely some things remain the same. You detach your soul a while, you try to neuro transmit those realisation cells causing to swell up in pool of thoughts.
You ponder over "WHY" but settle for "IT IS WHAT IT IS". But some things allude IT IS NOT WHAT IT IS.
People don't undulate on your terms. It takes too many Lucifer's fall to crash land on earth and understand the nature of evil. But in the mean time you still hover, lost in touch with reality and in that moment, the factual question brims up
REALLY
YOU KNOW
DID ANY
ONE
AT
ALL
?
The white turned pale yellow pages, the deep ink, faded writing of life's notebook. It haunts at times, shadows of past taking precedence of the moment to live in present. When the steadfast silence grows, the voice echoes, drawing a flashback of series of unfortunate events.
All the times I tumbled and fell in rabbit's hole, a symbol of trust, but ended up in "Godric's Deathly Hallows".
This world in indeed a magic woven, sealed blind for the innocence. People are more than what meets the eye. Trust is meant to be earned and yet I leave all the cards in their hands. I'm fond of the game and they're masters at play.
Emotions are merely face masks that are submerged in one's soul. You don't get to see the the realness in anyone. If you pulled out soul it would have nothing to reflect rather stygian. Arcane clad, a loom of lurid appearance you get hypnotised. Do you remember the first time you fell for the trap? Even as little, you were promised of certain things, never really having attained. You learnt, promises are meant to be broken but never really fathomed the depth.
Promises meant be because are
are to broken people broken.
If you stared at them you'll witness the vehement sinner lurking behind those black hole eyes siphoning to a forever land. Whatever they tell you they are, is a blatant lie.
I try to burn those pages but the magic ink never dies. Even in ashes it dances, it mocks my nature to get attached. Not once or twice but many times and still hoping to unravel the burried world.
I'm the Mad Hatter lost in bacchanal. Deluge of bedlam I incarcerated, running in circles of endless time loops.
I'm Tom Riddle's diary, that can engulf, take you down the chamber of secrets. And yet I'm denied the same privilege when it comes to explore them.
They're the "Boggart" taking forms each time a new. I could cast a "RIDDIKULUS" spell but they feed on the nothingness.
Some things change and inanely some things remain the same. You detach your soul a while, you try to neuro transmit those realisation cells causing to swell up in pool of thoughts.
You ponder over "WHY" but settle for "IT IS WHAT IT IS". But some things allude IT IS NOT WHAT IT IS.
People don't undulate on your terms. It takes too many Lucifer's fall to crash land on earth and understand the nature of evil. But in the mean time you still hover, lost in touch with reality and in that moment, the factual question brims up
REALLY
YOU KNOW
DID ANY
ONE
AT
ALL
?
1 July 2020
