Gambling Statue

Thundering roars of grey lightening, grey clouds,
He stood atop his own reflection, black waters,
For his empire of dirt was soaked with his own blood,
He stood there bruised, perplexed, face to face with death,
Thrown in front of broken statues,
His sanity was questioned,
All he could muster, was a giggle at his funeral,
The broken gambling statue stayed mum,
As they threw themselves in front of the mirrors,
They'd lapsed out of their own self,
For now the rain was over,
Gambling riots and bubbling colours weren't visible to naked eyes,
They talked about his free will,
Then clenched his own hands to write one,
They slept better with metal under their pillows,
And believed in unwritten rules,
He chuckled at the gambling statue,
The one who played favouritism to its last,
For what a mere objective idea could bring,
For how some fools abandon everything,
Letting some of his children enjoy the rain,
While others helplessly cursing it, in vain,
Some ideas were passed down,
Some memories were casted open,
As he breathed his last breath,
The bloody gambling statue was broken.

Back to Beginnings

Far beneath the black sparkling sand,
Tiny droplets wrinkled and overwhelmed,
Beyond the mustered bubbles,
The cascading light rose the curtains,
A soft serene melody engulfing the stage,
Night souvenirs ceasing the dream-catching.

Back to beginnings,
Encircling complete rhythm,
Memory brimming the ocean of uncertainty,
Ripples echoing underneath the veins,
Like a chandelier, ghosting anamnesis danced,
For the whispering paper plans now carved new paths.