In all seriousness, looking woebegone in a plight to chase hyacinth in a pile of snow,
regardless of synecdoche of your embarrassment;

In a four-wall Angry **** soul of doom,

We are laying on a pile of Cacti,
Fibonacci sequences of nature adding thorns
To miniature quilts and houses,

You dig and get more cacti,
And you bury yourself beside it.

You are fifteen,
You can run

You can keep running
Into green fields and Sunshine

You don't need to look at death, politics
Or your untied shoe laces

The movie is black and white
It's 1989

Lately, with the epicurean taste of life,
I have failed to realise the invasion of loneliness,

Catastrophic humiliation regarding pushing
Through the bristles of life,
I have failed to achieve the medicinal impoverished Mentally stable
Fully functional **** Sapien;

The psychological impact of a dying moth inside a glass full
Of flowery decor
I have failed to notice the nectar of life.

Man is no more gregarious;
It's an off beat 60's Chevy with rotten music

Aren't we all a little foolish?
We went back in denial to lose it again
Aren't we all a little needy?
Wrapping arms and memories
Leaving by boarding a train

Aren't we all a little in love?
Having fetishes to dance in the rain

Aren't we all a little insane?
To want things that cause us pain

~Sukanya Basu

Epicurean boisterous lad,
Had an animal farm in the late 90's
Had windy hair and dusty gloves

Used to shoot in daddy's farm,
Sheryl's ***** bottle she had shared with men
And a couple of animals

He had a parallax view
And the patriarchal buzz
And, a moustache with whipped cream from the dairy farm

He missed his shot,
Mary
When she walked past him without a clue

In times, I wonder where it had flown
In lakes or gleams
In seas or beyond;

Jamaican tail and feathers blue
My daughter had a pet cuckoo

She made a little spur of glee
And sounds that hurt my knees
My daughter adored the scorned bird
Her love for the creature was rather absurd

The fretful bird paid no attention to me
Until that night in the winter of '93
When she curled her feathers and looked at the sky
And stared at me with mournful eyes

She died that night and and saw through me
My memories of my child when she was three

One day I'll stop sending songs to you
And we'll retreat on to open fields
We'll dance with wrinkled socks
In the Artic between bears and seals

We'll find a way and paint pretty skies
I'll finally get to see you laugh with the sunset in your eyes

One day, I'll stop pretending to hate you
And hold you tight

I hope that one day will come someday,

And it shall last from morning to the night.