Flood Lines

Territory for years is granted,
Leeway for crashes is sorted,
Temperature is made adaptable,
Assumptions are daily exercises,
What on earth is going through their minds, I wonder?
 
Dangerous exhibitions are stamped,
Any possible extinguishment of the circle is forgotten,
The rides are fairly wounded and confined,
Would they be able to find out the shows are a hoax
Or would they be offended by the lights

that have always been there, like the sky?
Riddles are ensured to be manipulative,
As writers are claimed to be creatively insane,
Never mind how famous they are,
Their words are always mingled

with wooden crates and unnamed sacks,
Confusions occur mildly in the centre,
No one thinks they’re right or wrong,
But blames anyone who opposes them,
A grand hobby for the rising successors,

Temporary whistles scald the streets,
Where furrows are born and being painted over,
Scars are seen as wise for their sacrifices
Of facing the unexpected unknown,
They become the privileged and warriors.
 
Though there will be an upside down,
By the experienced or inexperienced tellers,
Synthesizing their own garments and fortunes,
Marking and disapproving fallacies at the same time,
I don’t know whether it’s a conscious decision or not.
 
The rooms are just created in a blink,
Completed with furniture and others in seconds,
Designed bountifully with cheap prices,
But what about the addresses of the tenants
That are hardly known or cared?

Living becomes an excuse, not a reason,
For tides would always arrive,
No matter where you are,
And we think to protect ourselves
by having them shunned away
 
as we form our confined circles,
With tentative views of rivers,
We thwart the torrent,
But still we are
Restless.

90°

 

Because sometimes I like to rant about injustice and such through poetry.


 
What a thought to be mended,
There was something else in the bin,
Yet it was unattended.
 
Limited coercion,
Unfair play,
Access denied.

Content was the shoemaker,
Seeing the fascinated looks of
Everyone but –
 
Others outside the window,
Still was borrowed,
Still was untreated,

Still was madness
Performed orderly,
Leaving no debts behind.
 
Yet, he believed in all his might
Those formal letters
That were never signed
 
Just like the front pane
That yells beloved
But sells taints.
 
Unfortunate were the metres,
Measured by lenient laws
And lost in the empty smiles.
 
What a pitiful premise,
Yet his eyes shine,
Seeing value for the first time.