In the forest of dead,
I keep walking,
I keep exploring..

I love to be here
I love this suffocating air..

Not a man alive visits this deadly place,
It's a tree grave, dead bodies are its grace..

They were killed to be turned into books,
A man killed a tree, for another man you see..
But I see them filled up with dust,
And the bookshelf's rust..

Termites have residential blocks,
No man I ever saw, if here walks..

No proper seating, no proper lightening,
But do the ones who create darkness, need any brightening?

Every book's cover has been torn,
Every book's corner has been worn (out),
But not by those who were supposed to read,
But the ones who in these do breed..

Its a grave, a unkempt one,
Spiders, bats, rats, Termites, ants, dogs, cats,
All live with peace and harmony,
Even the dead trees are doing good you see....

That's a view of a public library,
Our world after D-Day probably

The stars are magnificent tonight. The streetlights seem ghostly.   It is a cool night.  And I hear the owls. I write as I walk. Listening to random songs.  All of you whom are reading this are walking with me also. It could be around your block. Or in your yard. It could be outside somewhere or in your mind.  My two dogs walk beside me.  Black specs in the moonlight. Who else is walking with us?  I would like for you to tell me.

I am a rebel to their sight;
I have destroyed their lovely night;
My birthplace is displeased with me;
My plain fellows loathe what they see.

I am a rebel to their souls;
I have not understood their calls;
What forms a day, in their daylight;
What is a morning, at their night?

I am a rebel on the run;
In search of the sweet midnight sun;
In need of certainty and awe;
In want of clarity and law.

I am a rebel on the go;
That the unspoken dawn shan’t know;
The insane poet the crowd shan’t meet;
The unwritten course they shan’t read.

I am a mad rebel that haunts;
A fragile fool none near shall want;
Too hushed to their noisy sleeps;
Too quiet to their talking lips.

I am a quiet rebel that screams
The sun is a threat to my dreams;
And the thousands that live thereof
Shall not ingest my kindred love.

I am a rebel that denies;
I could not fathom their bronze skies;
That, on such endless summer’s days
Asked me to find my own lost ways.

I am a stunned rebel that cries;
My world floats just like butterflies;
I have too many tastes and fears;
My fate is anywhere but here.

Late at night I toss and turn,
Forever stuck in reality's hold,
With demons laying next to me,
And monsters prancing in my head.

Tiptoed steps make the loudest noise
When the whole house is sleeping
And fingertips are the pots and pans
That were my cymbals and my kick drums
Breath is gusts on the shutters
And notes between the metal of wind chimes
Even my slender arms are weighted
Everything that was once private silence
Is now colored with the sloppy strokes
Of a child’s hand
Everything is boisterous
And yet somehow when my nose
Brushes your ear
It sounds like the beat of a butterfly’s wings
Twisting through the rafters
Of your solemn mind

I will never leave.