The unending trail meanders about,
step after step in a windy route.
Exacting is the toll of this journey we take,
confusing turns and decisions to make.
Blood, sweat and salty tears,
mark the trail-blazers paths.
Bellowing lungs fan thrills and fears,
over desperate beats of the hearts.
The fiery scorching god above,
is raining down his scourge.
The strength and mettle are put to test,
in this body’s fragile forge.
Treacherous tracks coming ahead,
are no cause to lose heart.
For beyond every uphill climb,
lies the vernal verdant grass.
Scorching shine or the soothing shade,
the hilly climbs and…
The pendulum swings punctuated by the chime,
the ringing sound of the bell’s ominous toll.
Signaling the time — the dawn of the hour,
for us to rise to answer our brethren’s call.
Survivors of the race ravaged by this war
will live on to tell tales of its toll.
Many moons have passed since we first met our foe.
Many moons since the first blood drawn.
Many moons have passed since its first deathly blow.
The threat since multiplied by its ruthless lethal spawn.
Broken, and bruised yet refusing to yield,
wearily we follow the wise ones’ advice.
To strengthen defenses…
Untamable rock, lustrous crystal faces,
Disperses the long travelled light,
from hearts of far away furnaces.
Inimitable, birthed long ago by violent forces, then churned up by fire and stone.
Enriched are then the mighty mortal’s bourses, who get richer and more alone.
Enamored by the glitter and sparkle, hearts that get steeped in jealous desire.
A lust that makes them that much darker,
a sickness that creeps inside many an empire.
Guards become prisoners of those gleaming rocks.
Captivated by their brilliance, and blinded by their greed. …
We are but seashells in the sands of time,
laying by chance on the destiny’s floor.
It may not be for us to reason or rhyme,
the water that imbued its salt and spore.
Which water is saltier and which pearl bolder
we endlessly measure and poll.
The bickering from difference never gets older,
all this for just a dice’s roll.
A clam — its shell slammed shut and clasped,
until a spore comes knocking at its door.
Coaxes its closed heart to open at last,
and imprints with its own ways, salt and lore.
The variance in water, salt…
Mile after mile his kingdom lies, as far as the eye can see.
Nestled before watchful eyes, of the giants beside the sea.
He looks o’er it – a yearning gaze,
the shadows are getting longer
His slippery fingers clasp at the golden haze,
wishing he held them stronger.
His subjects obliged at his caring regard,
loyal and grateful to their benevolent lord.
Forever reaching, branching out their arms,
for his loving embrace and nurturing warmth.
Alas! known is the end to this cosmic tale,
Apollo’s attempts are doomed to fail. …
Tinkerer, thinker, wanderer often lost, and seldom found.