Tomorrow shall come like the summer's first glow to look at life till the eternity grow to see and strive till the epiphany to flow together to save the heart crystal clear like the snow
Turning tables. For sometimes some stories' endings despite how ineffable and inevitable that is, starts with new beginnings.
That's the last.
Even if I had written in enough words, it won't be, it can't be enough to suffice in words for the human that I became when I came here, for the mystery that life has been for me in so many ways till now. I didn't had the answers to so many questions and suddenly m i r a k e e happened when I myself couldn't understand of how I not only came here but stayed here and for so long and of how chose a name only because of my strange ecstacy for stating its meaning saying, 'of the family'.
That's the last as I write today as the writer I'd forever cherish as the inevitable treasure and finally as Tanya ....
The plants of the upcoming spring showed the brightest tints and shades like a carnival of disintegrating serendipity and shrouds of the symphony in the callous cacophony of the lonely traveller, seeking the age old memories and a bloodstream in the heart to skim upon the bones while living in the atrophy.
Cut through in the dilapidation and deprivation in all its tranquil translation look like the obscure memory of the insinuating flower colours for all I can only say were all sorts of brights, but after the final fall, they were all whites .
Despite aching all through the trembling chandeliers, smiling voluptuously for turning to the forgotten madeline, gleaming with a silver sheen like darkness dusted with the infancy of the moonshine, the happiness at times treads softly at the undulating mnemosyne, when I don't skip a beat, for that's when with every wreckage in a wailful choir turns to the cathedrals greet. To find a wave, to remember to find the gain in pain with each treasure that knew how to wither for the warmth of the days to shiver and the midaged flowers seeing the end, gently quivers.
Deliberately as I increase the volumes staccato, legato and vibrato or if in fortunate instances it's already in that state, I don't change a thing to change the norms of the capacity of the ear muscles except for a stubborn self that acts to slower the beats down of the waning audio.
And the next impulse is triggered to the gunshot like the only ship wasn't meant to sink.
And the world didn't drowned in ruins, and like an unflinching passion, that even made the halcyon think.
I just couldn't leave yet, so I wasn't piling up the nickels in the nearby plant pots under its deepest roots to grow the venomous plant in graveyard where the sun couldn't ever rise and the concepts of the milky way galaxy and the light years ahead were the practical myths told to a child who won't ever be familiar with a homecoming to the loneliness.
there wasn't even the slightest possiblity to leave the home for I already left a long time ago, when already in the backyard of an unfamiliar house and the heart whose doors were locking up each time whenever there came a feeble opportune to stay, and yet,
the keys were forever running on a cut short.
'the cut' itself tells me how immensely I was lying to myself far more than just lawyering for the law itself, there; where I being the stubborn culprit violated the rights for the self vicariously ironically the year of 20-21 sums up the tale yet again, but this time surprisingly briefly and efficiently.
life's toll were on the shrinks on my own disillusionments struggling in the unaided ailments, there was I - diseminating the dissonance of the dead soul on and around the sleeves and the swamps of arms while reiterating, reminiscing to insinuate in the midst of a desperate escape with the conscience that shed and leapt to the whirlwind of vents and events.
maybe that's why I was an emotional invention to the world that I had to offer the timeless tribute to winding paths and twirling rhymes more than ever before from time to time till it shredded in believing for the time being.
that I - being the arsonist, couldn't ever realize I trudged on the unseen, unfelt discoveries of shelter in the gothic of poppies for the dares and layers of the crucified emotional quotient on temerity of the mystic follies;
that life couldn't warn enough 'twere the recoveries of the screams of wilhelm
while I -
was even more than aware, the roads weren't leading me to Bethlehem.
the olden days with its stealthy funks unforgetful of its fleeting fucks basked unscouthed in the enforced debunks were a rhapsody, a parody when I - obviously wasn't habitual noting the collections, recollections of atrophy by the staggering of stacked stabs and disintegrations of hibernations to the creeks of times with my very own unchosen crimes; those that even if I try believing like the trained colonialist, the tyrant's militant government, the familiar filthy judgements and fake old unpunished grudges, just doesn't justify to glorify the inglorious crimes adjusted, unadjusted ferocious chimes.
here even if I try to jot down the whispers of the sleeths like the withering symphony like the familiar deterring cacophony for the knolls and dells of the wreckening and beckoning beguility that have been facing, fridgeting and frolicking the dwindling passion's soulless probability.
that day I just won't help myself staring around the emptiness of a fortunate paper for that would be the last sailing beside the whaling through the sunless sea that was always told and taught not to look for the days but darkness, vicariously legitimising a fogging semblance while I just went past the thought of an unoccurred planecrash that I smiled over on a whiplash.
here, there and everywhere I'd admit to have been habituated the cathartic preludes of the foetal traitor who didn't just glued over the dying gladiator.
I often preferred dying in these hours of the day when there's pitch black darkness all around where the childhood sang songs of the ballads; to reach by and through my earlobes to not being the only saviour or the heartthrob to define a complex into a straight vortex and the entire spiral, cerebral and spiral dichotomy to dissolve in the white painted juxtaposition of loneliness and unadulterated quiteness.
in the veil of that dialectic dilapidation in the surveillance of indoor oxygenation that I could manage to hardly fight per se and under the self intimidation and ineludible shelf and elf's resurrection after the orders from the look-alike of a tyrant who opted for a genocide where the wonders of the worlds fled in the blink of an eye beside the last memories of labyrinths and algorithms that conceptualises and epitomises the true colours of how even the lifeless flies could stung and cry and yet after all of my feeble attempts that can't, shan't even close to depict why the early youths did sat to die
here she had to survive pretending while moving forward but oscillating all the way back to the stipulation of the stagnant renunciation
here she had to crush and clutch the accelerator with that perishing lifeless heart on a leash along with a journey promising all things forward however that which went when all the roads drove backwards.
eyes crystal clear rises from the ashes just quiver each day she told herself a sweet surprise in the bones of storms and marshmellows that she designed for herself the evils under the hauntings of the silent pillows.
lies that have been in the rearview mirror like faithful cries while I was living as the ghost of that kodaline when I wasn't still mine just an addict on my crime and gasoline.
that has been the driest summer of all time, rigid, timid, fugitive, subjugating, around the fluttering lyrics of the music I've not even written to start off; unaware, uncaring narcissive that were strewn on all the paths I was shown off, where I let the directions to tread on the tales that tells a bloodshed history of my dreaded skin, and the cold hearted sleeves that reeks of paranormal activities folded in upgraded deprivating success stories.
the heavens know of why I didn't wrote griefs in proses where there weren't the tremblings and the silent rumblings even in withered leaves I ever witnessed, the dusk that sank just too soon for the eyes to even blink over the shades of longing where I wasn't - dwindling, even in the shrikes of my own belonging, and just for the lies to not settle here and there like an open jar astray, the dusk like the metaphors that only resided in the unblinked eyes they that couldn't ever rise even after surviving the life full of lies.
there have been the deadliest of colours in the hot baffling daylight where I didn't marched on towards the most distant but wildest of all dreams that I never witnessed in even the short lived slumbers; where wheels of time wouldn't criss-cross until they were screaming and screeching the heads with walls in a military campaign despite the awareness of the nationality, something's was always astrained as an outsider like the misunderstood preacher ending her own life before the other traumatic episode for the religion that's more of a tame and hardly a name for the starters.
time travel if even exists probably you would like to ponder over the last smile that was to last for not just longer than a while where the air was even more than worse from the withered petals, rusted rhymes and broken debacles.
I was more than just what the concepts it's not shown yet at being dead or undead, all I was teaching myself was to defy the norms of not to kill a riptide while I lay each day on a life as I gulped down newer versions of cyanide
life once gave me a choice, choices, in fact, but I had -
only been suffocating the shrikes of rights that hasn't been quite easy for lucid nights even uneasy for the already unpleasant rides
for the weekends to sound a bit less bleak to forge in all troops of chivalry that slays for more of a freak
once upon a life when
there were dearth enough for any of the awful songs or ones which sounded as if gorging on the wrongs
only the prodigy that longed and took a still at some corner sized forlongs
there where the hourglass was too stubborn to drown in a dead ocean fortunate I was who took notes on the same day last month to survive for another not a delusion, but with some blessed seasoned potion
making the feeling the living alive like the esoteric emotion nostalgic for the greetings from the kindergarten's notion