Mourning of The Months

When the twelve months gather to mourn
For the scattered words as broken hands tick
Till the poet's silent prayer finds an escape
Into the wild returning to the rightful home

Aura of Maggots transcending the aura of The feast of blossom
Realizing its been a while when the Words fell in love
With the solitude, away from the Worlds
Where the poems are monetized!

A constant rebellion among the words
A constant struggle to keep up with the fractured Time
Wonder if the words will lose the will...
forget the very purpose they were born for!

The urge to Travel back Home spiking
As the desire to play with the months
Fades away in the smoke and ashes
When the fire burns and burns till it burns no more!

Yet the Last poetry remains,
Yet another fray with in,
When the roads call, slumber?
A state of minds consumed by the insanity
Where the colors of the bow look like litter!

Before the words detest the poet...
Before the poems bid the farewell...
A nightmare engulfing the dreams!!!
When the months gather to mourn for the mid of eighth...
when the funeral procession of the King of Beasts
is when the Words perish... along with their creator!