The Scribe
shore of sorrows are still crowded with many faces
some are familiar, but others are more dense with the depth
many boats yet to reach from the wild sea, from far and far away
and my eyes were struck with one face, the one clear crystal face
your face, resembled the tales of past decades
the sagas of murder, bloodshed, and survival
your eyes were floating like the ice burg, destructed titanic
but they were sharp, strong and unimaginable
the shore smelled the aroma of desire, with fragmented vibrations
there emotions emulated the Aristotelian tragedies in stage
we exchanged our masks, and enacted different roles
with its hamartia's, and climaxes , but abrupted and scattered many itmes
yes, the boats are arriving, like the lightning and thunder
where distances are merging into new measures
the dark sea of sorrows and the crowed lives
are narrating a poem, where the diction is dipped
in the thick blood of dead memories
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