The last act

The last act

Severed. The slippery truth
like feather, swallowed, peacefully,
rain and dust,
And as hollow as mirror, things held their breath,
with the splash of a distant wind chime
things died like echoes

Gone like vultures in fear of a birth,
the christening was the warm foam from the stains of coffee,
we left ignored,
And while the silence fell,
like a small uninhabited circle of lamenting stage-light,
the garish eyes of the protagonist sang in the din
and made childhood rye-field dreams float,
in the eyes of all

All was not lost. Not the war atleast. The riches flowed
down the streets in a grim crimson, the poor fled in the epiphany of joy.
The city lights lay hunger wrought that night, the underbelly like violins gazing,
at the burgeoning moon, with new-born waters learning to swim

The druid, while dreaming the strangest opulence,
metered and sewn, into words, a creaking door
severed its hinges in full view of insomnia-stung-red-eyed-god.

The ovation was loud and clear.
And so was the lull. The asphalt waited till the last act.
And then died with rain.