Delirium of Graying Fantasies

As I glance beyond the silver clouds,

Seen is the jingle heavenly,

The rhythmical jingle of droplets of water,

In the music of crowded melancholy.

The autumnal waves just tickle me off,

As sway the silent treatment in mirth,

The pour of winds, the drip of mist,

Just fill the melancholy of a soundless earth,

Roaring through the silence, the silence heavenly

Of the long awaited autumn, O dear!

The drops of mist, dangling with the rays,

Ravished with embodiment ethereal,

Like a dancer in the harem,

Confident with rhythmical cacophony and appraisal.

Eyes ravished with rapture,

Celestially panting,

What passionate bosoms,

A flaming with fire.

The dancers of loneliness

As they jingle in warmth

Let the truth to be dawned to a dawn

That pleasure is not eternal

Neither are the ruins,

To define the life, the masterpiece of God.

Of all the waves crashing the shore,

Some sing and others do roar,

But the all being the euphoric sea,

Lunatic to it's core with the love of the stretched azure.

The gray hues sink the warmth,

Driving the sun to defeated solitude,

Which neither repents not cries,

Nor does appear rude.

The stalwart sun says so far,

"O greys of great arrogance!

Never do I nor will I cry to this,

To this, for my fate lists the pleasure of being ruined.

O greys of undiminished hauteur!

The arrogance that lifts ye will once drown ye

But it will be very late indeed,

Very late indeed as the stretched empyrean,

Will strangle you to defeat."

The grays do appear inscrutable,

Quoting, "O Sun, Great and Mighty,

Dishevelled are thy rays of hope,

Thine fate pulls thee to solitary melancholy,

But still why do thee laugh?"

In all its splendid grandeur,

With a diminished smile on the visage of his,

"O little greys! Somewhere in this cosmos,

Comes the call for loving snugness,

Or the call from the Nemesis

For a minuscule retirement,

But never am I afraid,

For the good is always yet to come!

O little greys!

I have witnessed the dawn of development

Of the creation that stands today,

And even ye smother me down,

The last day of hope illuminates the core,

That never do feel ye.

The hearts of gold, immaterial

Calls me to wake for them,

How strong do ye smother me,

The Northern winds are yet to come!

The Northern winds are yet to come!

The last phrase thus sink in despair,

Showing the defeat of a Mighty Sun,

But still in great rapture,

The mists dance away to the macrocosm,

Not worried for their geneses

With little hearts up their sleeves,

Still bright in the darkest melancholy,

Disappear they into immeasurable heavens.

Thus left am I, only I

A mortal of no importance,

Scribing the norms of fate....