hanging on a heartbeat
that is a weary feeble bed
of a legless journey,

waters, slowly walking,
slowly mourning
a very bruised laughter
coldly shuddering.

muscles,

what shrunken story they tell
of a battle, of a tussle,
of the heaven they held
now a loud loss. hmmn.

evening,

are you the one
that is a samson of
a poetry, a journey;

a wing which will not
fly the brightest eyes
of a wailing prophecy?

oh! tragedy!

maybe

a saul of verses
strutting a nothing
as boasting glory

is my talking pen,
is my speaking ink,
is my shouting sheet;

maybe.

I am the dusk
of a powerful dawn
who fought for his sun
to shine a glorious tongue.

tell the coming night
his grave is not a fright
of his shock of bed.

I am a dusk
of a new dawn sun.