“It is more necessary for the soul to be cured than the body; for it is better to die than to live badly.”


Orwell, Bradbury, Francis-Marie Arouet, Voltaire as we know him
Philosophers of the yore, in mire their words galored
In me they imbued, like the water through a cactus root
Deeper did my apathy grow, into the sands of my parched soul
A vibrant artist once, I stopped to see the colors,
The world was much simpler in many shades of black and white,
Every heartbeat would reconsider its purpose, dimming lazily with every minute
Stoic to every cheer, joy, smile and cry around me
Emotions replaced with obligations, the candor of life as such was comforting
Waste not the words that seldom would change a thing in this world I would sing
But tonight I’m the fool to my own folly, a whimisical soul,
A madman with an avarice for love
For your love, I demand more
For your life, I’d fight any war
For your smile, I’d fall again
Everything I’ve believed in, reduced to ashes, and from within them like a pheonix
Rose a feeling so undying, in the sprited world, so discerningly true
With every glance in your direction, time beseechingly begs me to believe
That it is real, it is short and it is fate’s cruel companion in agony
Before I knew, I lost sight of you,
Over a dilemma trivial, I couldn’t count those aeons that passed by when I saw you
I couldn’t walk past you, beacuse it’s not the victory I seek
And I couldn’t walk beside you because every moment would be to redeem the worth of me
I couldn’t walk behind you because your shadows would enlighten my world
With brightness I wasn’t accustomed to see.