Noir vu la profondeur en moi
(French for ‘Black saw the depth in me’)
I’m no poet, and yet I write as one
Rhyme, rhythm or meter, I know none;
Possessed of the highest inspiration,
Of those that strain imagination.
But I write to still the demons in my soul,
What Death, that faceless fiend, forever stole;
To break the horrors of that fateful night,
Suppressing me, from my legitimate rights.
An eerie lullaby heavily resounds, almost as if crying in melancholy
Accompanied by the intoxicating smell of blood, declare I would never be free.
As enduring as Time who lives beyond
The scope of savoring a last human bond?
How amusing, I could stare down at the face of Death,
Panting and screaming for a gulp of breath;
I would mock him in the eyes and smirk at all his threats
Giving my all, I survived his tests.
Together, we could walk the dreaded seas
And whenever victims call, we would heed their pleas.
The crack and splinter and shatter of bone
The feeling of sinking to the depths alone?
I used to think we were invincible
But Death is silent and invisible,
Immune to all the horrors of our work
Lurking in the shadows, leering with a smirk.
Death gambled his time for us to separate,
And as Fate itself prognosticates,
Planning our demise with clever scheming
He smote my heart, while I was dreaming.
How could I forget the moment I awoke,
My brain, within inches of having a stroke,
How could I forget the cold realization
That I’ve lost much more than a close relation.
The darkness seems to have a language of its own,
The dullness depicting those who mourn.
The quiet chatter seem to have died down,
In the murky blackness, I continuously drown,
Now I lay on a damp bed of earth, with no way of going back
For I have closed my eyes, and deepened my thoughts in the clarity of black….
এই প্রতিবেদন টি 668 বার পঠিত.