The time passed paints
a picture of misery
none can reckon,
As life merges and detaches
with cries of a child
and groans of the dead.
The daily morning sun blooms,
and emerges bruised,
Its scalding rays purging me of sins invisible.

The strings of life get tangled
as my quivering fingers
rush to free its puppets
from their agony
of self-sustained vices of mankind.
And the bomb beneath ticks,
as the recurring drama detonates
admist the shower of ego,
between the rubble of the now fading kindred,
And yet I know not of the character I played.

The yawning hole left
feeds my inner demons
the suggestion of conspiracies,
of the true and the false,
of the blood and water (proven a lie).
Never had I
the privilege of acknowledging his worth,
And never will I, for admist this pathetic brawl,
resides the benefit of doubt.
And yet I know not of the character I played.

Continued--