I'm a mirage in the making
Hark, the bells that tolls in the mire betwixt my failures
Deep and thick, this trench of undesirable filth is;
A jest of sorts that seem to latch upon the mud that fills it, a careful inkiness blotted by every other mistakes the world makes us humans do— a constant struggle to reach for an ideal paradise, an oasis for the worldly believer...
Everything's a trap. A movement preached for its propaganda, praised for the lies that they spread to eager ears that are ready to listen;
A promised sanctuary for the bearers of the future, an asylum to right the horrid wrongs of long past history;
I'm a mirage in the making,
Will I be a part of this divine comedy?
A jester wearing his sullen mask
Jingling the bells of continued mystery?
Mirroring the world of its undying misery;
Hark, the bells that toll;
An amalgam of charlatans, their tintinnabulations
My image blurs, I hear their congratulations
It resounds— I hear paradise in the distance
//k.u.
YOU ARE READING
The Quarantine Book
Poetry"--the stillness of isolation, the blazing aloneness, the rich moments with loved ones, and the sole solitude of the person. The rumination of a bored writer, a reflection of the months, a reaction to the silence and loudness of life. It's a methodi...
