Mortal Men of the Undying Society

We are but a palette of intricate faces

Sniveling on a belligerent canvas;

Eyes- drooped,

Acquiesced; like corpses,

dragging our cadaverous bones,

tethered to the loop of infinite time.

Eroded toward the edges facing light,

filling the air with a stench

coming from our crumpled uniforms-

unsymmetrical stripes, and disheveled locks,

dancing under the blood moon.

The operation theater’s light is on,

Someone lost another muffled battle;

No one cries, and another life fills up

these dormant shoes,

pushed into the file;

Walk! Walk! Walk! Walk!

Until the end of time.

The Same Song

What do I put on paper today,
When I know the ink has run out
And there is no white left between the blues?
All the papers I have filled,
They all look the same
Carrying the same weight.
Each of them
Is singing the same song
With a change in tempo, perhaps
But they all have the same lyrics.
What do I write today
When the song I put on repeat
Has started to wither in my mind
And I have no other on my list?
How can I write today
When I have nothing to say?

The decaying words

How often I have noticed,
How the frequency of the words that I speak
Has been declining with each day;
As time goes by
I have less things to say vocally
Because
When I write
I fear that I would run out of paper
When I would have a million more things
To portray,
Because when I write
I know no one looks into my eyes
And no one stops me in mid-sentence
To speak their side.
Because when I write
I don’t have to worry about the pitch of my voice
Or how eloquently I speak,
And sometimes,
I write behind closed doors
To not let anyone peek
Into my life in which
I don’t speak
But I have a lot to say.