I sit speechless on ancient pyre,
Soul cooled by pagan choir,
On charcoal grass my head rolls,
Bemoaning to a tireless shore.
Is this where Pandora napped?
Until her peaceful dreams were snapped!
A broken world, a tyrant born, a hectic storm.
The human core, by gibberish powered,
Devised insane, scribed in glow-tablets,
Naïve, her pranks deemed disquieting,
But who be the judge, this mortal court?
Sewing huge patches into sky,
A bandaged day, a stapled night.
Sanity awake in prayers,
Life draws dark circles in air,
And the sun seems fatigued,
Thirsty, lost in the azure mirage,
Where each death we endure,
The pangs of her woe.
The lullaby is discordant,
When can it lull?
When she is no longer napping,
But trying to undo her kindness,
The world showed no trust,
So now she must turn to the tideless shore,
To seek that peaceful dream once more.
The fish-eye is dulled by oily frivolousness,
Silvery scaly sands, odors have sharpened,
Nonchalantly she tramples,
Over wasted efforts,
To create a world of usefulness.
Alas! But who was kinder?
We, who could have regained lost oceans,
Yet brewed pestilence, skeletons of worthiness,
Glorified kings of nothingness,
Wearing coats of ‘nobleness’?
After all….we should have left her napping.