A Comforting Death.
I wonder what’s left for me to write.
What words have yet been unsaid by my soiled eyes,
Or what murmurs have yet gone unnoticed,
Among the chatter in the skull.
And the incessant urge of plunging into demise.
It crumples me down,
The inconsistency of the ravishing winds,
And the incessant thumping grinding in the dormancy,
Towards an unfinished rhapsody.
The thunder clamping before the hostile silence.
A prepossession in vice,
In the defeat of virtue and empathy,
A senseless contentment in the eternal mayhem,
A comforting death in the shackles of masochism.
An endless pursuit of the fulfillment of an intentional flaw,
An act to hang one’s ownself.
How does the bothersome continue unhindered?
Or the seamless is forwarded into intricacy?
As the purity envelopes through the faltering twilight,
And the virtue dwindles out of the Stars of Eden,
The water fades in its touch,
And the sky glistens in its immorality,
And the verdancy glimmers in its forgery,
The conclusion cements itself into a well-known singularity,
And it is only for the hearing and the vicious,
To remain the everlasting outcast.
– Imaan Siddiq