The Smile of the Unvanquished

change is but like the moulting of the snake's skin the core, the elusive blueprint of being, remains intact, patterns and adornments grow or wither, though in the end, what ever was, swims in the ocean of infinity.

slow is the road to wisdom, never bowing for the tyrant time; but should his stark might, crush this body of purpose and volition, and ban it from the face of the earth, then in a swarm of ashes nestling in dew, as tears from the sun, by thirsty tongues tasted, it'll seed many daughters where want is profuse and agony scalds.

Often we delude ourselves as being lost While it requires only a simple nod of the head, To gaze upon the nightly sky And between the silent but festive starry scintillisation To discover Polaris - the North Star -- A model of intransigence and equanimity, An anchor of virtous composure That forces the bacchanale of volatile clamour to shameful surrender And greets the cold smothering hell With its invincible smile.

I often slam my eyes into a direction where's nothing special to look at. A gaze fixed at so many make-believe worlds slain.

Disruptive agents of the blue funk headbanging around the clock in a slurring loop-line; a mood piloting through hyperventilations while stranded peacefully ashore when it would have drown in waters during low tides, yet strangely with no great expectations nor damage passing across untamed frothing waters. Camouflaged are the hatred and apathy, a mouth smiles triumphantly. The eyes look sad and glimmering in a pool of tears unshed, salt and dirt rippling the skin to cover it under a layer of premature aging; the laugh sculpted on the face of people in their hour of death is the foresight of the bare skull yawned in its awe-struck retardism. Sliding in a heavy-wielded pace, wetting the pants while composed and spine erect walking tall, trespassing the surrounding messy indignations uncalled for. Suffering the flock of fools addressing to him off-stage; a centerpiece in a gush of unrest. "Deliver us!", they cry unruly. The freelance confessor indulges in a spr

As an arrow targets life, a tree brings shelter and yields fruits, so may these two hearts steer valiantly across the troubled waters of Fate, fixed as Polaris, eyes clapped on perennial havens, ashore, and on the far side of eld.

In the ablutionary light of a hiemal Eve, treading over the tapering path of ash and soot, knees buckled, skin splotched and eyes chinked, his shadow is the gun-metal-grey serenity of a fey yonder arced above dormant ivory beaches. His soul is ink and it mutes chapters on the endurance of a cursed legacy and bedevilment pelting the heart into a tomb of disgrace, drown in burning poison; that ink feeds his blood, races his life pump to move on, never surrender, to foil the mirage of mourning with the shield of patience and the dagger of wit.