Brevity, Quill


I think we are living in a dystopia. A broken world marred by unspoken fears and secrets. Every spoken word and every action is an illusion. Every feeling is a facade.

Afraid of our shadows, our misdeeds and our misgivings, we take refuge in living a lie. Every day poses an uncertainty. A scarred world, crushed under rebellious feet, stabbed by greed and left to crumble. We put up a front, for acceptance and for love. But after the daylight hides behind dusk and we sit on the couch, the plastic on our face cracks, revealing decay.

We are the living dead.

Poetry, Quill

Superficiality of death

The world thus comes to life,

Yet death still lurks on the pretty face,

Of a mother that just lost her child,

The mourning done, all rituals over,

What next? But the void still exists!

She did everything she could,

Yet nothing changed,

“His soul is at peace”,

Well, how do you know?

What proof do you have to say it’s so?

For all these people,

That never knew her child,

That knew of his existence,

Only AFTER he died,

What good must come from this facade?

The world still keeps turning,

As it should,

And she is now alone,Her hope lost for good…