The story dies..

As I feel the embossed void on the sheets of my life..
I close my eyes ..For there is nothing in here to see..

As my fingers touch the paper.. The ink smears across ..
Each letter losing form.. With nothing left to read..

Some music.. Melancholy tunes..
Some omen.. Some distorted sand dunes..
And then a storm of ice cold passions..
Over powers my land..Tearing off each leaf .. Coldly..

Pieces of paper.. Now run off haywire..
Flustering in panic.. Some last attempts to hold on to the binding..

The anxious hope of a lost writer..
In vain wait of the promised reader…

Like a long abandoned shore..
Of a weed poisoned ocean..
Who still fights the waves of venom..

And holds on to the few footsteps..
Of a traveler who never walked upon…

So the sand sit stills..
Rotting under the suns..
Wishing and hoping.. For a pair of hands..
For new castles to be built..
For new prints to savior..
Yet the sun’s too strong.. And waves full of poison…

And now the pages cripple as they fall..
The winds of stillness..
And with storms of ice..
They lose each reddened letter..

The story’s lost now..
Forever and after..
The pen’s tired of moving..
And so is the raped letter..

And hence I fall down..
On my knees bruised by harsh leather..
And as blood surrounds my grave..
I pick up a black rose ..An eagle’s feather..

And now the pages burn..
My funeral.. My corpse set ablaze..
My soul enters hell.. My ashes weep in dismay..

And hence .. The story dies untold..
And hence ends the writer..

Both corpses lying unheeded..
And chimera's like rodents feed with satanic passion..