A beautiful piece of writing.
The curtains fall.
While one play wraps up , another begins.
The protagonist waits,
with parched soul and chafed lips.
For me to ingnite the act.
Abandoning those unheard scripts
And weakly rehearsed lines, I start my monologue.
The monologue of Solitude.
To the only listener of all times.
And only, Darkness it is.
The exponent of the narrative.
And there the Unknown Me rises…
From the ashes of the extinct tales
And the ruins of my unwanted fears.
Then I take the stage,
Harmonise the orchestra with the heart’s ballad.
And effortlessly potray the Stories.
Of those incessant battles within my mind.
The unhindered riot of choices.
That melting spectrum of emotions.
And of those infinite futile attempts,
To present an unbrittle self to the disowned world…
They are the Stories of the Times,
When the Dusk has set in,
And the new Dawn is yet…
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