To
pace this life of dreams carried afar,
is
to perish this life of dreams ajar.
He’s
open to this whirlwind, filled with crim-
son
roses, a death by struggle; where shrouds
but
camouflage scars; where visions but pres-
sure
instincts.
Life
is a cinema for bars; ever
influenced
by scripts; ‘til such lines become
dull;
where pressure breaks free.
He
knew for mercy, grounded in mercy,
to
withhold mercy. She begged for
such
mercy, while palming tears, where watchmen
mourned
such coldness.
He
couldn’t give a vessel freedom, where
his
intestines churned.
He
withered upon petals, akin to
petals,
for losing luster; whereat to plant a
dying
self, to redeem through mercy, a
cringing
mind. He wailed mercy, to
give
such mercy, where she relished in such
mercy.
They
found redemption through unwritten scripts,
as
affective as impromptu.
They
rewrote for greatness, a contour of human-
ness,
a stage for mercy.
