Androphobia

Wonder if the Road to Perdition,
Bypasses that of Salvation.
Or what evils might wrought,
My way - more.
Wonder, how many crossroads,
Must I stand at?
Looking at the blinding sun-
With eyes half shut.
Faith seems a brittle word,
An embodiment of irony-
The feeble mind.
Easy to break,
Easy to shake-
Footsteps falter in its gruesome shade.
Androphobia, now, impinges the tiny brain-
A new dimension to the otherwise insane.
Pictures, words, images,
All fall mundane-
As the spirit saps the journey,
Of its own vigor.
The ears have shut out all noise-
Silence regains its own independence.
Retrospective,
The scared and tarred soul,
Cowers under the weight of its own loss.
It's more than a sign of life gone-
Rather, the sign of awakening seems amiss too.
Do ends and new beginnings always remain divergent?
Yet their direction parallel to the cross-roads?
The face covered in wreaths of black-
Await the scavenger on its hunt.
Wishing, for it to shred it more-
To pieces which may find its unity with earth-
To be enmeshed wits,
With the brown soil.
Stamped on by more footprints' onslaught,
Careless in their onward journey.
Barren the desert,
Where the figurine stands,
Reflects how her life shapes up now.
No oasis in sight
For some peace-
Only a mirage of faint hopes.
Wonder where joy had run off to-
Forsaking the pearls but leaving empty shells instead.
Long for the known touch,
To revive and set fire once more-
To the childish inner being;
Yet life had moved on faster,
Than anticipated
And the figurine in black,
Must acquiesce to the end too.
For it's for another's smile-
That the end must mark a new beginning
In the other's life.
For that,
One must choose solitude-
And let words drown in silence.
The shackles must impede advance-
The figurine must love the chains.