When the world is finished in egoism, everyone, still, may not be in cameo-role. There might yet be a paradise, a perfect cloud nine hidden with self-esteem and a prayer for the completeness of so-called human. Every moment thunders, no one cares, souls dirtied, humdrum lauds never again gained but the vista of a heyday target cut her eyelids to “the sight”.
Mr Hypocrites burgeoning [Do You believe in You?], is there any space for a person inside a man but only You. I wonder how I could survive in this world. What on the earth am I here for? If I couldn’t change those facial wring, blurbs, the church-mice, the honorable and the pat. Why not be Sui generis? Should we all be just those careless pedestrians merely bipedal? Hope the lit candle continues till the existence of itself. This is because You never know the next minute of Your bilobed phrenal cortex will let You its fortune; let alone those ulterior queer-fish of every person.
Burnt yet not inflamed but sublimed is the counterpoint, You should respect. Inhuman fired to ash, long live sensual human soul. Phoenixes get up! Dracos dare cloudier! Never expected how if You are a myzenith fellow in spite of a marvelous maneuvre. Let’s kick, back but not relax ‘n say invisible it’s so . . . .
Long live humane, celestials the appraisal, down with ecstasy and fantasy. Just be an AMARSH.
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