a story ends with no eternal satisfaction
no page ever turned so far.
a little Machiavelli for-playing with his fingers
on each of these words , as if they resemble to
life's gratitude and emotions...!
he tosses out remembrance of flemish relish
into the forbidden lake of the unpleasant memories
some where, dying off into disrupt arrogance!
still on his toes, his hands are
pleading and giving pleasant push
to the caring water,
to gulp off these honest alphabets.
as his grave eyes would ever wish to watch
hardened recreation of dejected thoughts.
hold back the wind
which was died long ago and down,
he cried and diced a playful smile
the Machiavelli never wanted to say her
find you by, but so certain it was ,
and she was supposed to die.
swapping alone his destiny to others
no matter how far he might run away.
3:05 PM 12/31/2008
as his grave eyes would ever wish to watch
hardened recreation of dejected thoughts.
hold back the wind
which was died long ago and down,
he cried and diced a playful smile
the Machiavelli never wanted to say her
find you by, but so certain it was ,
and she was supposed to die.
swapping alone his destiny to others
no matter how far he might run away.
will he be able to restrain...
from committed balant(?) guilt ?
to accept the drawn pieces of motivation?
traited bits of trust he broke,
Worthy faces of contiguous whim he block'd ?
or the subsequent kisses of the vibrant earthly water
whenever he will stop to catch his breath ?
words on those unturned pages
from committed balant(?) guilt ?
to accept the drawn pieces of motivation?
traited bits of trust he broke,
Worthy faces of contiguous whim he block'd ?
or the subsequent kisses of the vibrant earthly water
whenever he will stop to catch his breath ?
words on those unturned pages
were so pleasant...
they wanted to be loved. they always carried out alone
to the faithless, nothing !
to the flowing frames of contemplated love,
to the Machiavelli, who kept his motives concealed !
Krishna rai
they wanted to be loved. they always carried out alone
to the faithless, nothing !
to the flowing frames of contemplated love,
to the Machiavelli, who kept his motives concealed !
Krishna rai
*
we feel proud of the moment, we make !
do we feel proud of our own life, we choose ?
*
3:05 PM 12/31/2008
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