Submerged

It saw.
In the platonic save,
rose a rose,
embedded with thorns, 
shaking the road,
breaking the roar,
the pigeon screamed of peace,
with white feathers—
daunting,
revealing,
veiled with misery,
and in the dead liberty.
It screamed of peace,
and it was shaken,
given the nude clothing,
cut through the scars,
mutilated through the wars
and bereaved 
like an uncanny grief.

Silent it stood,
with the obscure of black
obstinating 
through the core. 
And then in the abyss
it stayed empty awake,
peace was never an option.

Yessing,
guessing and dressing,
sins of hopes,
and dreams of hypocrisy,
surprisingly wise,
sublimely unwise,
and when the trigger clicks,
the rainfall,
colors of transgression,
a rainbow of just unjust,
disrupts the ever scared
sacred breath,
just to tell it,
the color white
always gets the dirt quick!

Like the monotonously pierce riot
tearing the canvas,
a humble silence
breaking the crowd,
cheers of life,
applause of a beginning,
the show began.
The cage was opened,
it didn't fly. 

The cage has always been open.


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