The Throne awaits
I am running,
But the clock isn’t moving.
The world is slipping beneath my feet,
But the body is still.
My life runs in kaleidoscopes
Of colour, pleasure and pain.
The timeline, however,
Remains the same.
I am rushing to reach a glorified
Carrot.
Sometimes whipping up the deck,
And brandishing my Tarot…
As my mighty answer,
To the stuck wheel of creation.
I am Powerful, now,
But devoid within.
I have collected all the cups
And pieces, of my happiness,
And being…
But there was no food to be had,
In the first place!
I am running,
And the clock is moving,
But not for me.
My timeline remains stolid,
And silent…
That which seems so afar,
Seems only like a mirage,
Or a memory I haven’t made peace with…
I know, I know,
I will be well…
But what will time tell?
Time will tell a dastan of a person
Equipped with all the machines of war,
Ready to destroy…
But the War is in the future,
Infact the warring sides, themselves,
Are unaware of the War.
What does that make me?
A Sage, A seer?
That is the paradox and the travesty,
Of a Man ready to be a King,
To be called His Majesty,
Is waiting for his throne to be created…
Now that is not such bad a thing!
But I would rather be King…
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