Cold heart, Raging fire..

Cold heart, raging fire...

Born was he, to humble means,

His outlook was mocked, as he grew,

Finally an outcast and in isolation,

He nursed his thoughts.

Burning anger ran within,

As if Prometheus resided within,

While pain unknown and undefined hopelessness,

Blurred his eyes, till the cold hearts,

Gave him the name " The cuckoo man",

Taking his tears as signs of hypocrisy.

Stars looked down at him, 

with the melancholy that night brings,

His shadow he detested, 

and the night was when the bitterness

And anger calmed for a while,

As under a blanket of vicarious ephemeral 

And epicurean, a mental state of happiness exists.

But burnt was he, blind raging anger against forces,

He knew would not relent, till the ground beneath,

Held more innocent bodies, than the ones above,

No rainbows, no heavenly drops of rain,

Could he envisage,

What hope could he mull about,

How can he stop his tears from falling,

Even a weed is beautiful,

If seen with love,

But he shall keep walking in the night,

And give his soul, for atonement,

If only God would fill each soul,

With an awakened sense, of humanity,

Only then the flowers shall bloom,

And darkness is dispelled.