C'est La Vie

Ripple of prophecy irrupted, there is bedlam.

Disorder spreads, like vice, sporadically, gleefully.

Soon after the calamity, whole self is plundered, into unceasing havoc.

Flowers blossom, memory rekindled. Oh, there is no order.

Abased souls, mortified mortals, chagrined poets, possessed by insanity.

There is no control, no attempt as well.

Nocturnal melody accompanied by delirious disarray.

Irony arises, hope resurrected, amidst the deadly reincarnation of subdued lore.

Chronicle unthawed, dormant ideas awoken, in realm of uncertainty.

People scream for departed tales, watch their back, masochistically.

No man is sure, whether the departed is alive or simply frozen in melodramatic stanza.

To no avail, poets commemorate the lifeless, with ravaging amount of determination.

Like a drowning man, like a somber preacher, like a trivial poet,

People are no longer scared of unexplained peculiarity.

Trying in vain to grab something,

Mysteries finally unraveled, like the Christmas presents which are eagerly anticipated.

Nothing could be spared, when chaos erodes itself, until routine prevails.

Under ferocious churning of endless trivia, feverish quest for realism.

Obscure stories are forsaken and forgotten, like yesterday’s banality.

Depth no longer interests, height no longer intrigues, miracles no longer amaze.

Chaos, just like any coup, destined to be slumped.

Robust time gets fatigue.

Unassailable survivors of tests, ineluctably exhausted.

By hackneyed epoch.

Stand firm against the ingratiatory and tantalizing coziness of aftermath,

Story-tellers are determined.

To stir the placid bay, to prompt hibernating minds, to sow suspense,

To recount vanished nostalgia, to recoup lost voice, to condense vapourised narration.

C’est la vie, of a willful rebel.