There are days
that feel like years
without a night's sleep,
rolling along
drying
burying themselves
within heavy tunes and mighty words,
bleeding
between lesser meaning , expanding time and freezing speech.
Old, terribly ripe.
Painting colours of the soul into three
with it's sorrows, it's dreams;
it's life
with it's truths , the untruth and it's screams.
There are boils and it's bricks
that live through ages;
further
through their slogans and their tricks.
It has blood and it's voices
surge
invite , echo, promise
that
like it had,
there will be time for a few kings.
It lives through narrow veins
of somebody's love
others' faith
and their imagination; a carnage spot.
Like the red that they create out of love.
Like the hate within that love; it flows beyond...
It too creates itself.
Through numerous -isms,
it gazes through dark and day; it moves on like the Chakra's blue
Absorbing the tinge of their ruby face(s).