My dear friend wrote this masterpiece and I cannot help but reblog it. He beautifully fuses Hardy-esque Nature and Eliot meets Manto Modern literary aesthetics, that is so appeasing to the senses. I grinned, I sneered, I spat, I grunted, I agreed, I disagreed, I felt, I thought and I immersed myself into his words.
Happy Reading! x
It isn’t music unless appropriate seduction precedes and meaning proceeds it, while ”it” remains indefinable experience.
When, after crawling hours of rolling flashing, grey sky stops pelting rain
This mountaintop terrace’s steel railing, plastic chair and plants drip crystal colorless ether of pain;
A dull ache that seeps deep to the roots of 1300 year old trees, throbbing ancient rituals
Of blood and sweat and porn and sperm and massacres of potential heavenly visuals
Darkly thick wool hangs low above, oppressively condensing thoughts demanding space
Slaying a sentiment, a whispering, pleading ambition to tumble it off a cliff with grace
Seeing this mutely shrieking mourning, hidden in the audible, visible silence
Lying in every tearful leaf and sheltered shivering birds’ hearts with ominous elegance;
A silence I could not allow pass through my bones, like the shredding wind, its ally
Witnessing all this from under a shade on the terrace…
View original post 886 more words