REFUSE, REBEL, REVOLT

Oh moon.. what this beauty is? Is it an anathema or a bliss? Rumour is that you too are lovesome, but smudge and obscurity, don't command delicacy. I fancy the folly flora and loathe the spiny skin, like folks of urban  conducting the west indie jungle. Both one and the same thing. I caught out dirt residing, in some most adorable countenance and the ugliest of faces  brightening big continents. Oh moon.. my quest is mystic, with no end, vicious elliptic. Why men are allowed to be dark yet they are called handsome, while it's contemptible for women to be low in shade. What is beauty? Where it resides? In fairer skins or in wholesome dims. In triumphant wins or in best played athletics. In big lonely mansions or in small filled huts. In wrapping somat neck-tight or in leaving as on the last rite. Big eyes with no vision or small ones with depth like ocean. Being a companion of all and end up being lone in brawl, or having a less but cut-throat crowd. Being bejeweled with money ...

Art ameliorates the artist like thread healing broken tapestry. Art rakes roughness and digs on heart's surface. Art is the dazzle  at the end of the tunnel. Art is the crony of every Peter losing Wendy. Maestros live in dirt, with the wait for mirth, kill the older ones and give their art - a new birth. It always begins when a person is hurt, no traces of composers in blood yet they make earworms  like no one else. Art has the dominion to fade demarcation between white and black Wordsworth, to make Mona lisa smile slow, to let the Indians know  the statute of British force and teach them for the blows. It's arduous to find aethetes or even man to have an eye, over the pieces of power and legacy to empower. Creators die, but creation exists evermore. Some write Romeo's end, some communicate events historically happened. Some portray nature  better than nature is. Some can make you giggle in toughest of times, while some can make you weep over things you never felt. W...

I am exhausted of this smiling masque. I am reluctant for all the new tasks. It's just this heaviness in heart and loneliness like dart. Why sacrifice is a jest, what is there in life just a matter of breaths, and all my dreams, none but few broken bests. It's easy to give up  as it is easy to forgive, to forgive those who dumped down those who killed and torn and those whose sin is foregone, like giving up in false symons. The void has lost its stiffness by letting in everytime, giving all what is mine, and saying goodbye with shine. When will it be over, when what I have will accept me the way I am and adore the flaws with laws over. When nature takes time, the universe goes out of flow, the shows go down  all time slow, and leave man with nothing he know. At the end, I understand that the more I dream of success, the more patience and faith I'll lose.

I look upto the stars, I look upto the sky, I look upto the sea,     But these days, I find you all over. Your smile has turned into my aid, Your pain is my poison that I'm ready to drink. All the bravest quotes, they say, are laid and done, Nonetheless mine story is not at conclusion. I buy new pens, and write your name with them. As if, it is mine own, and buff out of reality. Now, when dejection overpowers you, Or you need one to caress you. Be certain, I am near you, may not be within orbit, But in every blow and breath. My fantasy is like a folksong, never written down, Played in harmony, From dusk till dawn.