The Doors of Eden.
To what wonder is it,
As I dwell among the blues.
Like an inconsequential shred of disbelief,
For even death remains a recompense,
For the incessant vice of a lost breath.
I can’t seem to fathom the unfaltering sagacity,
That lies like an outcast in this Vale of Tears.
I can’t seem to remain a sane constituent,
Of a disproportionate past,
Or to remain a fading rhapsody in the chatter of mortality.
And in my silent woes,
There remains but no epitome of despotism.
As I am enticed among the ravines of normalcy,
That bleeds into the melanin of my skin,
And shears through my porous existence.
As I descend into this verdant landscape,
It envelopes and blazes like a penitent inferno.
And the life etched into a vanishing resistance,
Fades away in an irrevocable lie of absolution.
As I falter between life and death,
The lines of prepossession blur to me,
Like flurries of humility condescending to the Doors of Eden.
An iota perhaps lost among the constellations,
Or a mortal’s fervour of repentance.
– Imaan Siddiq