Burnt

Like they do on the verge of countryside,
amidst the roar of the clouds,
and their punctured strides,
as if detaching all the memoirs,
in the dreaded flakes,
they burn the corpses,
I let the spirit burn to smoke,
the wicked wins over,
inside, the devils rise and ride.

one's hues for my pallete,
to fill up the lines,
abstruse and colourless,
other's fancies for my pride,
one's truth for my lies,
other's solitude where I hide,
I let the spirit burn to smoke,
call it a steal or theft.

to create and wield,
On other's woes and shattered dreams,
to prop up on their stunted growth,
to harrow down their poised and feisty streams,
from the warying paws to the jaws they loathe,
I let the spirit burn to smoke,
laid lifeless but bruises screams.

Stripping them off their glee,
braided in my own,
blued with the bruises and grief,
snatching it away to flee,

I chose,
Slipping on the impulse,
stuck to pride,
greed for content,
hatred for love,
I let the spirit burn,
but the flares stretched,
unfurling mercilessly, ruthlessly,
it gulped all,
for me it left the ashes,
now they cry and repent,
grey and distraught.