Scars within

Mystic shadows embracing her grayer veils
Blots of urban spasm staining the impeccable disdain
Of many an unprecedented atrocities
Devouring the race in name of civilization

And as it walks upon the water
Crimsoned by many an innocent's soul
Stench of redemption from freedom
HIS mirth a sordid contemplation of the nemesis

A skeleton draped in bark
Bearing scars of the malady that devours the earthly heaven
Beholding the pile of unwanted success
That engulfs the little boy's dreams

Ensnared in his own glass prison
He awaits the winter frost
To inter himself for a second life
In absentia of the "life"

(Stars)Kindling soul

Diminutive blots of colossal hope
Splendor in it's somber plight,
Cradle of a flickering warmth
Majestically blinking in a dearth of light.

The "Emu in the sky" surging in the sea of dusk
Andromeda with it's hordes of seraphs,
Guarding the earth from Orion's scythe
While a ecstatic melody is strung on the harp.

Behold the sentinel of heavens
Watching over the race,
Of many an animal of treason
Falling from it's grace.

And yet another sight might reveal
It's dazzling smoldering heart,
But soothing enough for a cherub to rest
While the thespians play their part.

Incised in a canvas of dusk
Blinking softly through the night,
Herald of a newer dawn
Harbinger of a prospect bright.

Misanthropic Paradise

Sabers of time piercing his skin
Sordid ambience, somber prospect within
Prospect of a misanthrope's paradise

Stream of estacy surging by nigh
Insurgent morbidity torching the sky
Solitary battalion raging through forest

Seeking bliss in absentia of soul
A spirit cold enough to be warmer than all
Ghost of freedom watching over me

Behold the bedlam for peace
Cornucopia of heavenly bliss
Prospect of a misanthrope's paradise

An insurgent's grim dissent against the relentless thorn of time might not change the direction of sands in the hourglass, nor can it's rate of flow be altered. But yes, the elating ecstasy the soul gains is unmatched. While dreading the carpe diem that reeks of the veracity isn't much conducive to pacify your soul, raging feud with the the reality also doesn't abate it's repugnance. Dementia might stifle your strive for freedom but at least that way the soul escapes time's sodomy.

Her somber prospect

Crimson hue on her grayer veil
The mere's stage : revealing it's shade
A somber protest to the darker trail
Brooding her love's grim fate

Engulfed in the darker hours
A spastic note of voidness
Turning into blackened flowers
With the fragrance of solace

Twinkling in her tresses
Are dew drops of an optimistic soul
Kicking in the womb of gloom as she undresses
Telling tales of hopes untold

Yet another pessimist jester
Still clinging on to the hay
Not much awaits his role's end
Silent prayers if heard someway

Darker lights emerging out from her eyes
Constricting the ray of light with it's arm
But when all rays die out
Darkness has its charm