Should be dead by now,
These thoughts
Shamed by the harsh light of the day.
But even the night is no haven,
For as I hide
There in the necropolis
of my broken dreams,
Your specter beckons
And impregnates me-
verse of gloom given birth,
ghostly beat resurrected.
This bed should be the grave.
But even sleep you own-
Your name engraved
On the epitaph.
Reverie you claim-
Your story is the dismal chanting
on every corner.
And rising in the morning
Is like of a starved vampire.
No satiety is found,
For everyone walks now
Under the daylight
With cold hearts,
Including you.
Naughty imps on their eyes,
Cruel devils on their heads,
Cunning wizards on their lips.
Their violence I feel,
Harboring on silence.
World is a big necropolis,
In the guise of a glinting metropolis.
I wish to mourn,
Shed more tears,
But redemption never comes
To this warm heart
Molded it self to be filled by you.
For the way to the fire
It sought but never had,
Is bound down, down and down.
Devouring it like a quicksand
But never grants death nor life.
If time comes
That it turn to snowy pulse
Like those of the dead of the day,
Will your tears and the roses
Finally be offered mine?