Dreams, Without Wings

Czadanda Saint *

Life is a mystery
And death is a tragedy
Like a lamb lost in the lion's den
No wonder why the world is going to end
As if the people blinded by the curiosity
Seek their dreams in their own adversity
Preferring to return to the timeless chasm
To break away from this ageing realism
Following down the biblical paths of atheism.
Dreams, supposed to break the ridges of the known
Dreams, supposed to build bridges to the unknown
But it was dreams too; that cast the spell of doomsday
The beckoning of oblivion in the middle of May
When all was to be in its orbit in the gyre
The Pharoah's serpent make out the fantasies that lit the pyre
Eyes, mirrored in the sabbaths of the fraternity
Sunken, horrified even of the Holy Trinity
As already danced to the tunes of insanity.
I don't wanna dream again
Coz, it's where the nightmares began
Of things what could had been
If people have done more than just dream?
The operas turn out to be the illusions of a séance
And the songs were only the death-cries of a lynch
Sweat, blood, flesh and most of all, life
The Vanity Fair, lost in the shadows of the night
Sacrificed in the paranoia of might is right.
The philomel sings still of the Noah's Ark.
But with no light, the voyage is much too dark.
And though the tears are washed away by the rain
The wounds still bleed as a hallmark of pain.
The memory lingers on; and the omen still remain
Amidst the rays of hope which now looks inane
The world, already driven to the edge of the creek
When rocked, time and time again, by the wrath of Old Nick
Is what the stars pre-ordained to be the curse of a mimic.
If only a funeral opens a portal to Queen's peace.
I wonder how much rites more for the fury to cease
But the spectres remain still in the dreams of this generation
Distorting their minds with doors to another dimension
Where the heavens lifts its cloak of ecstasy
And where the darkness loses its cloak of secrecy.
When the roses drops to embrace the blackened emblem
The marked lines of the Dark Prince, struck on the poles of totem.
Imaginations, which made hard for peace to be reclaimed.
Dreams were the bricks of the days behind.
The eyes of the morrow and the hands of our time
But when the glory surrendered to the tempest
And the fading twilight shrieks the need to redress
With dreams let fly, with no strings attached
It is the beginning of the end of our days.
Aspirations, turned sour, in the winged angel's absence
Wishes, let free, without the Old Man's essence
Dreams without wings are what they are, the four horsemen in pretence.