Shanzophrenia.

An unforgiving part of the book,
Exile faced of a forty system’s circle.
I have tasted the sweet red nectar of loss, to this battle.
I let myself fail… to fall this grace.

And I commemorate to the sword I fought for,
As the guardian above picture’s the passion gone… and the present scorched.

It arises an illusion in the dust; at seldom it seems a puzzle of the protagonist, a tapestry of triumphs and stage in red vine tragedy…unfolding yester years of childhood.

The bird flights away and leaves the guardianship to a tumultuous end
I stand-alone; it’s a fate I once read in a distant epic…but now I is, too a fable
History will tell about.

…It’s a betrayal as old men tell
But time reckons it’s a fare trade in love and war.


Written: Wednesday, January 11, 2006, 5:42:34 AM