Parcel 38 Grave No 509

Rufescent clouds descend on the Victorian horizon as the sky dies Beneath them bone chilling winds roar as salvos, I feel like an acceptor who adheres to the doctrine of disguise While looking through the prism of a Sunset Tourmaline. It is not what I want but what I prize. As a harbinger I walk through the walls of smashed mirrors And build realities of destiny and pain To forge the fabric of this world in a single ripple Where an image of her is an apotheosis of authenticity, The essence of love is in the realm of gods, And where, I am finally a happy man. Only through my poetic cathexis I have not failed to connect With the dynamics of life, - but not with a 3 rd party Without being hit on my head as if the voice asked; Are you there Moriarty? Well, I am here in the misty dominion under the hat Alienated from “the superficial society of blog” Far from being a leader And definitely, my name is not Gog! This isn’t my Cantos but a litany to Parcel 38 Grave No. 509, My brief moment, said I - to reflect, and confine. My intention is to imply that the usurper of balanced life Lives inside of me hidden at the bottom of my soul Dressed up like a Zoroastrian priest, and Could only be an equal to the imperator of farce, As [it is] an unfortunate part of my character in a lockdown. I dream, in this playground, summers of joy and love A sweet-dream that is released on the wings of a dove Kept from the curious eyes in her secret chamber of patience Not fragmented or corroded, Not boycotting as a dissident with a flag in his arm But giving an understanding and relentless calm.