Samyam Shrestha
Echoes of her screams on one side,
And melodies of her laughter on the other,
A true symphony for half of my being,
And a turmoil to the other—
The inner room filled with
Riots, ruckus & terror.
Deep within those turmoils
Are voices demanding my end—
An unjust death for my eternal peace.
Their patience worn thin
By the never-ending symphony.
Yet I prolong their suffering,
Experiencing what never happened,
Hearing what was never said,
Feeling what was never meant,
Oblivious to my void reality.
Through the fabric of time,
Those riots unravel,
Creeping into my very thoughts of her.
An unfathomable attempt to silence The Being
Then one day, it happened:
He became The Fallen Angel—
For suffering, which builds the character,
Has forsaken it’s purpose,
Breaking the mirror of the room
Into a million pieces.
Maybe he got lost in darkness,
Or found himself in it,
The rumors are unclear.
Now the room remains silent,
Light, overshadowed by darkness,
Waiting to be switched on,
Dust yearning to be brushed away,
Time aching to freeze,
As it alone bears witness—
To the rope’s cruel embrace,
A heavy dead weight,
And a deadman’s unending smile.
