victor

has spilled, this glass full of thought, unpleasant, like bitter syrup.

hot air circulating inside a closed room. my room.

windows closed.

hath no window, perhaps, this air of confusion

and dissatisfying retrospection.

a figment of conclusions, in puppyish childishness, growing bitchy.

ageing the insides,

poisoning them, like rotten food

not told to feed on.

i let it ferment and gulped it down.

rise above this poverty,

beggar like hygiene.

this unhealthy viscious circle

that keeps thee dormant,

a hare in hibernation,

sloth-like passive.

sterilise

this breeding ground of germicidal thought-

thy cheek burning food,

ever unrelished,

ever unsavoured.

rise.

rise above this shallowness.

let it not sink and wreck you.

there is earth below,

ground beneath, you feel is shaken at the moment.

be not a victim of such tremors.

quakes, a few that really are.

be thy saviour, not thy casualty.

speak to thy soul,

let it be the echoing microphone.

let not a breeze of ash come and soothe you,

the stale air inside your room, abating the brightness inside.

vent it out.

try the walls. they are doors in disguise.

blow it out, ''i am superman''.

welcome the wave of freshness,

and light.

triumph over the unchanged offspring.

unmould and mould it.

become..

welcome...
the victor.