Thursday, November 10, 2005

Messenger of Processed Insanity

My mind is dark and in hell
Fed by worms and an anathema spell
Hear the sounds of eerie voices which slowly fade
Into a deafening silence as they bruise me with a razorsharp blade

Gallop on this four winged horse with a red horn
Icy wind, in the southern skies I’ll ride till morn
Seven shades of dust covers my gray eyes
Another dying prey, I feel no more surprise

There is only death and danger
In this prison to which I surrender
A playground of an illusive sky
No one plays , they only die

A raging thunder, a terrifying scream
An Electric madness, a lava stream
Kill these worms, my senses blur
How I’ve longed for a messenger


shreya said...



Siddharth Adelkar said...

good poem. running away from interpreting raw sanity. exams huh?