Poet is a ruler

The disfigured memories

Trying to find pieces of thoughts that were lost

I was always lost, in forever frosty lands, hands that knew better, all crowns shatter, the batter mixes with coal dripping wet ashes. The king has been crowned, and his compatriots drowned, what he sees are no fissures; its fraction within a fraction an overlay of bits and hazy pieces..

The ashes mixed with tar, the battles he fought, the religions he sought, the sovereignty bought, the crass lady stolen, forever emboldened by the wrath of a few, in obscure dew the linen appear, the fabric spreads and covers her eyes, she avoids a gaze and get herself hooked in the eyes of a murderer in the udder of a rebellion. Coming and crossing the swathes in a benign brave Ashwa.

The medallion is announced, kingdoms are unfurling, and battles are proceeding, lust is fuming, girths are expanding clothes are falling, the ends of all the spectrums meeting a memory is germinating, the structure is forming, the base is developing, the history is manufacturing itself, to tarnish the present few moments where humans are animals being led to the cage and then locked in the lap of the mocked past, abused, reused, hashed and dashed, beaten to the point beyond recognition, a disfigured past to control today.

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