Incest. Another Love One Hundred Thirty Nine.

Incest.

 

 

 Another Love One Hundred Thirty Nine.

 

 

Epilogue

 

 

Is the Capricorn tame after all? “Let’s end long- winded speech and monologues. It’s not obituary yet during grave service. Where is the body? It is the third dead body on your list”. “In my criminal record it’s your comment”. “In your criminal record it’s your story”.” So far the dead has been alleged until you prove I’m wrong”.”Do you insist on keeping silence?” “My silence is eclectic one”.” If you insist on not confessing all your crimes, your silence is to  be electric. I want the third dead body.” “ I did kill no body. I won’t confess my sins. Two is the number that I favor. Can you execute me three times?”

It is a tale,

Telling gallant adventures of a snail,

It used to cry a lot,

While wandering around,

It asked one constellation whys,

When answers were so unimportant,

It was inspired by a muse,

In muses circle she’s well-known,

She has no name and no calling,

A muse is not a human being,

She is chaotic, wrong and distant,

Her plan of actions is a mess,

She isn’t held responsible for killings,

Bestowing a natural disaster,

She wants you being the best,

Muses don’t tell the truth,

Muses don’t lie,

Muses don’t make a deal,

Muses inspire,

Muses don’t know arithmetics,

She is a bomb,

When you need to explode,

She is a match,

When you light fire,

You walked through night,

You followed insomnia,

It led you,

The moon yolk hang as usual overhead,

The stars lost their brightness,

She was the  brightest star,

That night you couldn’t stay in dusty stardom,

She gave an ultimatum  ‘no less’,

Like kids and cats,

She must belong with someone,

Muses should never be on loose,

That night you craved for love,

She craved for you to love her,

Never unleash a muse,

In sunshine muses sleep,

Music and lyrics will be born in darkness,

Muses create a genius out of broken dreams,

Composing the doom of our existence,

Muse is a she,

But she is not a woman,

And she is not a wom.

Basking in morning light,

A sock becomes alive,

Before it dies in packing chaos,

An anorexic creature,

Named after Life,

It comes to life,

It grabs a pen,

To document my hasty rain,

It will be written down,

Grossly illiterate,

It enterprises,

Inking the bottom of the page,

I overlooked its scribbles,

They mention precious stones and the end,

‘The most precious things are those,

That can’t be lost in any terrible shipwreck,

The end is here,

It’s the place,

Where the past doesn’t exist to own us,

And yesterday is dust’.

P.S. Any lost and found resemblance to unreal persons, faces behind splashes of color, characters under the particular circumstances is absolutely incidentally coincidental. It was made up by life out of thin air.