Wednesday, April 23, 2008

A story.

Lost in the labyrinths,
It moved in and out,
Of myriad maddening mazes,
Wide eyed skeletons staring,
Fusing with the thoughts,
Mingling with fresh earth,
The water from the tides,
Travel to the veins to pulsate,
The stale air swirls,
Sighs and sticks,
To the zombied mortar,
The charcoal churns,
The mortar is coloured,
It stays and moves,
And moves and stays,
And block by block,
Of beings dissolve,
And guide the zombies,
To many other mazes,
Bringing along the other forms,
Dissolving, precipitating,
And when they rest,
Blithe at a point in history,
The new story is conjured,
And the epic continues…

DIALECT. left to time, it withered, like a dead corpse hung from wall, after the sentence. no poems to defend, no stories to tell, n...