are the


is the


It passes,

becoming something



Matters of




Remedy for

a requiem

Are the strands

Is the soliloquy

viiieen.) A Caricature

The catacombs of our self bidden

catechism. Now they serve as our



Perplexed by the subtle perturbations,

words crackling across my lips

making these inklings pour across


Beside these ashen lines, diluting

the hearts congealed blood, dilating

each constricted thought.


Blindly we wonder passed our insight,

at our past born asunder

these their insides, shall the innards

read as woven, interlocked and entangled.


Another cataclysmic tale of amnesiatic

absentia, ostentatious in our preconscious



Flinging vase like tablets, into cuneiform

fragments, it just so happens that these

in each portion are hapless.


These our chamber doors; upon which none





Tantalized by

the dwindling

dreams of these

my victims


Martyrs without

intentions, our actions

were only to melt

away their symptoms,

for all madness has no cure.



the angst of

youth is the

bedrock for

the monk who

thought best of

physical suicide,

and took up spiritual.


What’s common

in the adolescent

angst, when nature,

is nothing.

The Void is the

only real ‘thing’

to them.


Why is the one

better than the

other? Because

the void has

accepted both, yet

one is yet to

accept the void.

ii.) Twenty-One

I’ve outlived

myself and

grown in no

particular direction.


An appirition

with no business

at all

Though late onset,

I’d be in denial

if I didn’t just

call it angst now.



I’m still just

a caricature of

my eightteen year

old self.


As I become all the

more disillusioned

of my mortality.


By the chance

of my will, I

may grow into

myself and soul.