Immortals...

You could have immortalized me.
Alas ! I but have become a mean creature
Of this unworthy earthly time.
And oh the conscience!
It found wings to far fly
And to expose self to devils of dead worlds.
When there are no qualms even as mind
Seems to falter at every tick of time,
When hatred and love seems to have vapoured
And the only visible feeling is that of silence.
That silence, which holds the cries
Of unfortunate present,
That which holds the key to unreal pleasures,
That which ends what mind can truly perceive.
And who would bear the rigorous pains of life?
Who would think of the past and clone
The eternal beauties into sumptuous dreams?
This, the reason for my being lost
Into a total unconsciousness, is what drags me
Closer to forced peace and calmness.
But the turbulence inside is forever lost into darkness.
All and yes, you could have immortalized me. You chose not.
I live not closed, in the world when you choose not.
So shall I find me in this rave existence.

Birds...

Two birds part ways, fly high, fall down, die lone.
Their souls walk close, pain less, heart less, love less.
One says "Happy we were crying, smiling even while whining".
The other says "O love! We were living. Now dying.
Dying to live more, crying to smile more. Yet happier I am.
For I can't part now. For I am you now. Forever yours now. For forever."
Their wings catch the eternal fire of love, and disappear to live again.
To live again, love again, whine again, die again. Like just love, forever.

Instincts...

I'm not figurative. It's an impossible truth.
Life seems to have put itself into a question
When it built around it's soul, ruthlessly,
A mind of an abnormal stature. There exists
Of sorts all, caricatures teasing its presence.
The state of being and living,
With unformed and enclosed instincts,
Off from reality, far from perception
Is no more than to live with no instinct,
Like a dead being lying with no senses
That ever reflex. How mind forms the awareness,
Feels it, lives in and with it,
And with only it's bound expanse
In a world with not a feel for reality in entirety
Is insubstantial, to form and forever continue.
Robbed of the power, this flail feeling forces
Into a dissatisfaction. Fears that life may end
With not a completion, with not fulfillment
Seems to have conquered the able thoughts.
Pray I not for pleasures of the world
But a way, the puissance to peep into
A window verisimilar. Pray not to end this way,
In the veneer Of living, living like dying.