The Decadence

I am like a child,

Grudging; grunting about insufficiency,

Insatiable conquest over coveted toys,

Like how I loathe dolls,

But loving trolls.

But this life,

Of not wanting,

But intense grief,

The sore that tears,

My gentle heart.

Thus the gushing,

The bitterness of beer,

Crushing down the senses,

Beating the gastro,

Flooding every emotion.

How I wish could forget tomorrow,

When it will become the illusive past,

These grieves, of morrows,

Will pilfer me of my aspiration,

To live till at least today.

Being consummate of flesh,

This rancid death-meat,

Commiserate of losses,

But I have not inspired,

Like the patriarchal sanctimony.

It’s a choice between,

Living and Thriving,

Or Living inanimate,

The spirit of woods,

Or a pebble under the washed-guilt current.

Or a crawler hideous against sunlight,

Mice rattling from his burrow,

Than grieving against morrows,

These flood-filled emotions,

Only decadence will consummate an ending for all.