Sliding from the cold and blue

He marked his way across the view.

  A subtle rage of a frozen despair;

An imprint on his chest of a slow devour.

  Swiftly he strode to shelter his scheme,

To find another ferocious victim.

  A ‘Postulant’, he proclaimed to charm the mob:

An angel’s veil; a majestic heart-throb.

  She raised her hand and caught hold of his

Guzzled the fine chalice of Hiss!!

  Years had passed and the gold still young,

But a scar of a `nail on his left arm.

  She stormed in like a Nightingale and kissed his heart.

The scar now seemed like an unbearable mark,

  Jars and glasses fell off the shelf,

Yet another fragile prey on a march.

  A dawn is a fool’s hope my dear,

You shall be raised like a finest beer.

  Here i stand holding your impeccable soul,