End of Rhythm

By Jason Lalremruata

In every word, you won’t make a sound.

when you cry, you won’t be heard.

The music dies, the rhythm fades-

surrender now and meet your fate.

This is the end of turmoil.

This is the end of unholy suffering.

This is the key to the chord,

but this is the end of the rhythm.

Feel the sting of the poison’s tip,

the dagger that cuts through the skin.

The meaningless void of thought,

a deprivation of a worthless one.

It sings of praises echoing long ago,

only forgetting the one of praise.

Living in the thrill of choice of boldness forged in anticipation.

Profession found in diming lights over-rehearsed a thousand times,

slight significance for the candour of silence.

Seeding the life of trivial dream.

A dream by a slumbering worker, a peace forgotten in dispute.

Down to nothing on the contrary of a valuable piece.

Carry on, towards the proudness of a simple pretence.

Every trial of hate, wears a smile of faith.

Every person dealing his own fate upon a profound time.

Things creep in but do not move anywhere else,

a top spinning on a vertical place in accordance with a beautiful horizon.

Merged in two; a completion of a desolate form.

One another in cause of relativity binding them in union.

Ending this life, an existence is established.

A seeming less home in place of humanity.

By Jason Lalremruata