Poetry

I threw myself in deep slumber
pledging not to play the game
for others and exiled myself within me
after the rebellion.

A realized being, suffers
at the hand of a thorn skull,
learns to be silent, choking on words
across the pages which are blank.

Immeasurable limits of space and senses
start a hierarchy which will breed contempt.
There was a memory, a suffering of absurdism
I am still caged in.

The kingdom collapses in brilliance of sun,
the man starts another version of hate.
Acquires the blood of royal vein
and promises to become a beautiful cadaver.