the resonating uncanny whispers that plague
the senses every time you try to sleep,
the life-eaters sing you lullaby in a falsity
as you pretend to show your blunt back
to the daily cacophony.
it's not about the bliss and the beauty
'ey told you
it's not about the quantum of exploits and grace
'ey told you
perhaps, it's about the solace
that you greet against the sacrifices;
perhaps, it's the mirage of fulfilling hopes
that you keep running after...
you teach yourself the craft
of replacing the melancholy of exhaustion
with a fake content...
as sentiments get replaced
by the whims of desire.
and then,
the best healer of all wounds
slips away slow and steady to your oblivion.
by the dead hour,
when you pause to realize,
it's just the carcass of skeletal remains.
the promised 'happily ever after', misses you by a whisker
as you finally finish after the after...
