9:30 PM

Seventh of seven (kind of romantic) dedicated poems.

Someone looking from behind those eyes
Finding it hard to believe whatever is real
As if whole of the experience is for naught
An ever consuming sleep possessing him
Unknowingly moves he, no clue to future
Unable perceiving lightly, he behaves odd
The clowns that make happy are only sod

Wishing the nights to consume all of days
That nobody wakes up; silence prevailed
Were there infinite time to fathom infinity
He would have gladly discoursed eternity
He would have sought eternal dimensions
This complexity is the definition of vanity
But time is limited to squander foolishly

Reality and fantasy, roamed he helplessly
Wishing the dominoes may come together
Although all players running hither thither
The feathers of the bird, plucked to nether
The contagious vainglory makes men flicker
Just like spectral cloak of ignorance; a river
The rebellion is only an aimless endeavour


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