Wind blows portend, as the sphinx arises,

Buckled to his heart- bristle consequences of mankind’s revolt;

Not willing to share; this which brings him bulk mirth- gaiety of his possession, his knowledge obscure to others.

Locked up in the silent chambers of solitude,
wrapped in his own dogmatic saying: non but I.

He becomes the grim in quietude, creeping the maze of lone; digging even more darkness to his shadows- he blurs his own vision thinking he’s wise.

Because he has never lost in war does not mean he would not lose in this battle.
For nature shall rise against him, like plant in spring.

Though she’s miles away but I can hear her calm whispers;
Oh knight!
She is coming…


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s