(The involvement of catchlessly in the piece “silent rage” signifies the non-existent nature of an error awaiting attainment)

And the race is within me, encircles me, captures me, slits my throat open for melodies, but oh, you won’t find rhythm—just an echo
my dear, just an echo.
I am running breathlessly, catchlessly, deliberately but oh my friend, drowsiness can’t be blinked away—drowns me, ruins me, devours me.
The finish line is where I stand, my golden boy. Don’t teach me the phrases you have learned recently. The finish line is where I commenced from subsequently.

Today when I held the pen to cast a spell upon this empty sheet, I found myself getting defeated from the world that surrounds me.
With innumerable wonders around me, I find my words trembling seamlessly,
And as I look for my muse, I find myself neglecting the exceptionally aligned nature, just a dewy view.
Stars that aren’t as pleasing as before,
Prosaicness that gathers me makes my heart sore.
This mundane night isn’t as poetic as it was yesterday, just an empty soulless ray.
This ink doesn’t cast a beam, this sheet can’t make my eyes gleam.
Those swaying trees which resemble the approaching spring aren’t the cause for the poetry I bring today.
Because my shaky hands are making my pen stumble today, maybe my heart had only this much to say.

Don’t lose the grip of my hand dear, keep it secure amidst the warmth so blissful yet pure, for it was sculpted to be interlaced with yours.
And teach me the phrases which settle amongst your eyes, dilate with each touch of mine.
And let my soul flow with your restful breath, for it dances along the whistles of your beating heart.
And you whisper notes of melody in my ears,  it may unravel the softness within me, I fear.
The kisses lay flat on my skin, gently brushing away the flaws of my existence yet the tenderness rushes through my woven veins.
Don’t look too deep into my eyes, dear, they might settle for the vows quiet yet quite fierce.
My love, I fear, the smile might cause the pathways to shine, blinding me in assuring light.

Conflicts of my heart, conflicts that form my sight, conflicts amongst me or the conflicts those upright eyes hide.
Conflicts like an endless tide, swallow them with instances of time.
And the conflicts as harsh as life,
As sudden as an unknown demise.
You see them behind the bars and find your joy, their presence is in the tore wings, in their inability to deploy their own life.
So the kids ask "what if they could speak?"
"Would their speech be as deep?"
"Death won't scare you but life would, you would find corpse despite the souls
Because you would stand within the conflicts as they protest for their right even if the world leaves them ignored,
Even if they could speak their voice would still be unexplored" I say.

He holds your destiny in his dusty palms, though the very move allures a beacon of hope in your despairing heart.
His piercing stare lightens up the darkened paths of your coming fate, yet he calls it “an approaching mate”
He seems to kindle a future although the ashes you walk upon aren’t just leftovers from autumn,
The lanes are now flourished with expectations for an arrival,
Flooded with anticipation, yet the city burns with every breath you take, every move you make.
And his greedy eyes won’t make a difference for you as he continues to assure you, for your own fortune.
Aren’t your eyes enough to dictate a whole new universe of happenings?
Or are you too obvious to narrate?
Did he too learn the depths of his palms before, or was magician just a title he perceived from the kids considerably more?