Poetry

The character of the myth exploded, 
naked aggression on the souls started with, 
meditation on death. 
What was real? 
The dignity of life or, 
suicide of seed truth? 
The classical colors were, 
going to live only half-life. 
 
Guilt was writ large, on the face of morality 
and essence was always forgotton. 
The kingdom had swallowed the strangers, 
And king had killed the songs. 
Adulterous games had become popular 
every one was becoming a rengade. 
 
Death will ultimately, 
wipe out the signatures, 
from the blackboard. 
It would be a clean sweep. 
Some body will go in trance, 
start reciting a mantra, 
for the sake of vanity, 
and clarity of the moments of dawn.