The interminable ruffles of silence,
Enveloping and nestling deeper within the recluses of our reminiscence,
Sniffing the scent of jasmine beneath the wavering putridity;
“This too shall pass…” – death.
A Vale of Verdancy luminescent alongside our globular organs,
Forsaken yet reciprocated.
The glimmer of ravens within your beady iotas.
“My sepulchre…” as the whispers invigorate the phantoms lying awake.
A brush of fervour – Alas!
The expiable warmth as you entwine among the thorns,
Skin deep as they shear inside you,
And the chrysanthemums in bloom encapsulated in your coffin.
“You’re late…my friend.”
Despondency showers underneath the orchards of our woodlands;
What follies are we mules of?
Why not simply say what one means and leave it?
“Can you ruminate on how the sky looks, clouded and aged?”
– it’s hard to describe.
The greyness of one’s void,
A homogenous abyss atop our epoch,
One of Arcady and one of symbiosis.
Yet the violets perambulating the daisies,
And the leaves shuffling beneath our cadavers,
The roots caterwaul my flurries of figments:
– a silence.
The grey uplifts along with the warmth of your hands;
A blinding silhouette and a deafening lie,
I shatter.
– Imaan Siddiq
The Genres of Life 