cyriac maliakkal

He was the mountain of breathing 
the hated blood 
With an advanced unhealthy
Up and down of the lip
tuned a ugly melody.
He was looked by a negative
Breathed the sweat of despotism.
Sky was thundered at a little way.
Did not come back any word.
He rested in the unromantic
He was not the lighted one.
Morning had become drawn with
a closed door
Couldn't find him at there.
Laundered the shadows of him.
Fired the legs of soul.
No morning didn't ever asked 
a remedy.
I knew he was spilt by the word
Of himself.
Buried the despotism from a
narrowed not fully brighted  ways.
He looked with her with an 
Unfavorable eyes.
He breathed she was not much 
to him.
It was his inner shadow.
It was his cause for bad blood.
Evening was became lighted with
He couldn't speak ,he was at silent
at long time.
No one couldn't shake him.
Few men were threatened   him with
a dark world,
Sweated for his body.
He vomitted a desperate blood.
He worked in a unwaged earth.
He was carrying the blood and
he worked with the stain of 
white blood.
That was not a eyed situation.
He was rested from the physical 
life .
Sang a classical music on his dirge
A dirge song about him.
A thousand poems had written about
him in every men's hearts.
No one read  atleast a few from it.
He was lunged a smell of white
Painted his whitness form;
No one could remark his forms.
Totally had broken by the moist 
of these nature.
  • Author: cyriac maliakkal (Offline Offline)
  • Published: June 9th, 2023 10:57
  • Category: Sad
  • Views: 1
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  • Bobby O

    I love the style but I kinda list the message. Props on the phrasing though.

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