Men standing on the watchtower
Searching around for where dreams die
There sorrowful eyes, held so sling
With some weird unknown magicals
Up their loose nonchalant mentals.
Where were pains nurtured, or yet, born?
Arrogance on their mind modules
Soar high like though valiant eagles
Fearless and courageous in air
With their sharpened teeth, they inflict.
Where is it, that colourful dreams
Bright revealing and beautiful
Dies, without resuscitating?
Perhaps some Gods are just angry
With fantasies and brilliant hopes.
Would cries for once bury their head
Down the north to freeze their fountains?
Or perhaps, Sahara, to dry.
For our stupor eyes are heavy
And tired of all time pouring.
Depression still getting Happy
Of her sarcasm fiesta
Not happiness, but rather, jest.
And mockery of our weak ambush
The watchmen watching with tension.
Today, i start a series of “Ironies Of Life”. It shall be a weekly publication right here till I finish the series. I would really enjoy you guys to join in to explore together. Thanks for checking by.
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