Gates, those that open to you, do close.
Strangers, shelled in makeover honey coats, break them. Owners of the ripe,
tickles the bad you with the sweetest of themselves. Ranges are real.
“Absolutely no!” he replies. He cuts
his toes treading broken lattices of growth bound inner crystals. He disagrees
with mists, hissing the spices which he both like and hate at the same time. He
stretches coils for detailism and feeds on to them with stone thoughts, damn
and smiles. He makes himself live the favourite inkill. He is addicted.
Concentrated bliss melts candled paths
to destiny with the heat of your spearheaded truths. The frail sex fills, not
the store of desires but the dustbins, you could hardly empty. Choices of
worlds only rupture your dreams and leave you half. Honesty serves the worst in
the end.
And, he owns a mansion, a huge one.
Its tall walls and roof echo all that mean, but fades away with time,
surpassing the moonlike effervescences. His crops, manured with fertility of
the so called bad liquids and vice smoke and harvested with the joke of reasons,
are devoured with the passion of replies. His nocturnal swims in the pool of
wilderness are lined with posts lighting rejoice in his ignorance to brains. He
is the benevolent Priest, the happiest miser, the romantic Jack, the angriest
Puri and himself at best.
Stains of the wiser kin, rampages from
the west, expected lusts that had turned to decimals and fame for the flames you
never combusted, when starts to grow in you unwatered, they remain; not as ashes
of anamnesis, but as phases of disgust. That’s when you crave for being new. He
delivers it.
Devoid
of science, devoid of religion, devoid of the invincible quest for truth, he
flourishes in his multiple flows to limitless climaxes. He speaks not always of
the materials that let anyone fly high; they are just mediums of raising toasts
for particulars of selection. He has a firm base, common to all that highlights
in his garden of choices. To shear apart foes like hellions, to reach where no
soul has ever reached, to plunge into someone he wants forever or to whisper
tunes in the wait of his dead end, once the choice is made, he dives and forgets
you.
You stare at him and wait for the
response to your never resolved matters, those that has slowly transformed from
structured robust questions to doubtful faint stammers. You can still predict
the same gloom after the end. You stop a while to hang on the thinnest branch
of your conscience tree. But, he is proof, he is confidence, he is energy, he
is tempt, and most of all; he is the only one left.
He looks back to you with a smile and
rhymes with the addictive tone you have never refused before, “I am you, my
dear.”
And yes, you are! You are him, and you
live again.
