On, Going Nowhere

Such is the nature of a serrated consciousness,

which scrapes off the path to create undulations.

Silence is boring and births a belligerent reality;

absorbing all the hostilities like a hungry crater.

The epicentre of the echoes bear a chilling tone;

an irritating surge of sorrowful feelings swells.

There is an unauthentic description of real beauty,

but the drivel of macabre written in leisurely lavishness.

Relating to the languages of defeatist’s aggrandizement,

on becoming the persistent blemish on those pages.

A futile journey of stereotypical descriptions.



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