Rage was supposed to be loud, right?
Rage was supposed to be action, the faster beat of heart.
Any reaction? a rainbow of red? bitterness of a nightmare?
That irritating shade of brick orange at 2 pm?
Then why’s it much alike the eerie silence of a crowd?
The silence of giving up on someone one fine day.
To abandon that one canvas which has been there
Not only beholding my once-favorite color but also salt.
Why do I bow before the crows now, just for them to fest,
On every remains of memory at the bright noon?
What is it that remains thus of promises? Of the forever?
The ones made not in the frosting fog in yellow lights but
Of the autumn that arrived after the farewell of spring.
So, choose when the clock still ticks loud enough to ear
Whether before your demise, you shall pick one of rage,
Ordinary like the day light says, violence of heated steel,
Or that of the one, which one day shall leave you stranded.
Choose if you shall prefer to stand barefoot enjoying the sun
Amidst the Arabian sand while the venomous ones circlet.
Worship the remains of water and lust for the blue of sky,
Lay upon the cacti for love is the sin of a yearner for rage thus.
Or that of the horizon where you shall travel through,
With the hush the wind that doesn’t leave but carries not but insult.
The unleashed hell in fonts of guilt and regret of the wilted poppies,
Thus, for the smoke, that smothers upon the gush of water on fire burns.
So, choose before you get forced to walk the path of demise,
To alter your footing on both the ways and beg to differ from any.
For my choice was made when I picked up the pen at midnight for
An old acquaintance to warn of the paths I’ve walked across.