No More In Chain

The naïve life possessed by the power of desire, turns into an inanimate object, utterly inert. The buoyant being, unsuspecting and unblemished, if captured by the vicious clutch of cunning lust, rolls in remorse like fallen gems of pristine garland, the fragile string of innocence ruefully ruptured. The sordid senses drenched in vitriolic insolence don’t for a moment repent the presence in the insistent mind the obstinate obsession of nurturing the debased desire in the swathing shades of garish grey, decimating the desolate sapphire spirit of its passive possession disowned. For the body and mind ravaged by vile violence, living is no longer a charismatic concept. The piteous ruins of the broken heart pile up in futility at the threshold of disgrace in the debris of disdain. Where has the sensual sanity of sobriety gone, why has the taste of love soured? The tormenting times don’t have the answer. The charming perception called life, adored and fostered by the flamboyant essence, a precious treasure preserved with potent pride. When chained in subjugation it crumbles as an object abused and discarded, the agonized heart pines to be free from the prison of pervert passion, hopes to find secret solace for the shamed soul. no longer mute in throttled tolerance, waiting for the time to rise re-invented from the dust of self-worth.