I WROTE TO DEATH

I can never wait for death,
Not even anticipate for it.
If I did,that would be obsession to evil.
So I anchor my goodness on paper.
Then steal love from the Angels whom watch over me.
Will the world revere my work,
Once my shadow ceases to prove my worth?

I sat by composition table,
Lubed the back of my pencil,
Drew a family picture of us on a balcony...
Admiring the beautiful hori-zone-to-all
Sunset beyond the lake,
Waves toss-absorbing,the teasing peaceful light.

I embrace my poetic brother's shoulders,
Shake my novelistic father's hands,
Kiss my choralistic mother's cheeks,
Absorb my sister's sentimental moralistic quotes.

I become a writer in the natural,
Blended by immediate pillars of words in flesh.
Retaliation,
Infliction.
Rebellion,
Dominion.
Change the very image of status quo.

I forge on...
Write like the next line will be my last...
Once observation,cogitation and will transpires,
I derail my steer of silence.
Papers raffle,the top of my all knowing desk feels the scribbles...
It fathoms the strain and inverted effortlessness of my sentences.

My writing comes to life,
As time seeks to devour my soul.
I play postpone and purposeful delay,
So that the rectangular hole sees me not.
They know from history,
I was to die before the alphabet knew my tongue.
I made it this far,
Upto this point,
I tremble with temerity...
I can say life has been fair to me.

My last breath approaches,
I feel lesser than a dying bird.
My final blink is closing,
I feel as valueless as vanishing rain clouds.
My fingers unfolding as my lips shut,
I feel as important as death haunting the royals.

M.O.O aka Carswell evoL