You thought you had a story, silent ambition and some far fetched glory, but nothing for happiness, just hovering sadness, with vindication of virtue and invoking madness. You unheard what I had to tell you, a story which is now yours, as the forbidden man under the breaking sky grew, Made you wash his feet of shits with your haughty tears. And now when you stand with heart and soul, You forgot I tried that too years ago, but as you get wounded by rampage of mind and foul, You remember your practise that once made me melancholy or so. I have hands but not to pull you scroundels upright, and mighty shoulders but not to carry you devils, Because though you sabotaged me in all possible way, And as with hope for vengeance I wrote all, Because I believed in a time when you shall be like the people inside a burning hall, My papers shall burn, but the words shall fly away...
Posted on: Wed, 02 Oct 2013 05:34:00 +0000
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