What does death look like to you?
To me it is two protruding feet
(No shoes on them, just bare feet)
out of a white ambassador window
on a chill september morning.

The legs of my father's father
shrunk in demeanour and their toe fingers
tout & white as storks, evenly spaced
on the surface of a village summer pond.

His body inflated as if in water
like a toad floating in space
his clay skin a bit brighter
and a wry smile (and a fly) on his face.

Does a prayer require a god sitting above?
Or can an agnostic whisper a few words
Not knowing to whom but for.

Pray for the child who slept hungry this night
And many a nights before.
Pray for the mother who could not sleep after the beating she never asked for.
And pray for all the sick and the dying and the downtrodden and the poor.
Pray for the rich and the kings and beggars for despair knows no bounds.

You can hear the anguish, the cry if you listen closely enough.
I can hear it amidst the sound of a clock trumpeting the endless journey of time.
I can hear the soft murmur of thriving lives around me, some alive , some waiting to die.

I pray to all the gods I have never seen, that I will never see.
I pray to the kind, the cruel, the altruists and the selfish to be more.

Tell me, does a prayer require a god above or just the one for whom these words are for?

What makes a man tick?
What reduces him to ****, to go berserk and run
Creating art and guns, what makes him hate?

I have seen men banging their heads against a wall.
I have seen men not once crying taking the greatest of falls.
I have seen men, cheaper than cheapest, kinder than what you and I can ever be.
I have seen men, give away their lives, for reasons lost, lost in the sea.

What makes a man sick ?
What eats him to death, to go so numb and frail
To build bridges and rails, and to write Macbeth?

It's 3.20 A.M
And I hear birds
Maybe lost.
Crooning for what
God knows.

One hour from now
40 years back
Mr. Marley will be
Rolling his blunt
Rolling in his grave
For what?
Only god knows.

It's 3.24 A.M
And I am writing
A poem.
For What?
God knows.

She gave me hope
of a love she never felt,
She snatched it again,
And again & again.

We would tell each other
Our dreams of us,
In which she was mine
And I was hers.

Now we don't talk much,
It may seem.
But after all
She was just a dream.

To let go is beautiful
To let go is to change,
Come this fall
when trees shed their leaves
Letting go of a season,
waiting for a new spring
and their flowers to blossom.