the tragedy of the nobodies

from all,

who trespassed 

the immovable truth's

through 

the sounding 

trumpets of disbelief

and voices 

of discouragement

(of those who rather sleep)

it's the measure

of all 

illusions 

in our disguise

the measure

is always ours, 

so it is 

our right to be

between 

the cold grip

and us

we can still 

pretend

- only time can dictate 

how long 'till

 this illusion mend 

soul drifting

in a longing distance 

a rapacious howl 

always rifts 

through your silence 

and mine

 for the previous sages

which now sums the rages

with their elder peers 

we are still the offenders 

to sear once again 

 it's their convenient

 god's will

 under a sinuous

sight 

of the moon

offend 

from pretend

this illusion stitch 

from where 

they also can't reach

(but who used who?!)

the accuser claims 

"I did what the other didn't"

 -  but the indifference of the accused

only says 

"i could have done it 

if you ever let me dreamed it"

 the hidden belief

that sways 

all strings for the accused

 hidden right beneath

a layer of orchestrations

and in a memorial 

   congregation , 

surviving 

through the tragedy 

of the nobodies

that nobody  

regards.

we were young,

we were vain, 

we were 

the bruised bodies

in a ethereal desperation

the lonely ones, 

in all this lonely towns

"daydreaming days 

of a daydreaming nation..."