It seems to be;
I walk, where your legs tire
I sing, where you forget your melody
It seems to be;
I have lived for you, when death was pasturing your heart
I have built for you, a world full of nothing but art
It seems to be;
I have not been there for myself, all this while.

Cascades of love,
I kept putting bricks around
how long shall I surround?
Whatever was left;
of it all—
I stood with ballistas' protruding
upon stinking patches of blood-mud;
the gates to my paradise
banished forever.

Who knew—
who knew there was an ocean so vast,
tides that rose so high;
as they came pouncing,
upon walls impenetrable
with eyes intoxicating—

Immobilized, I stood
know not why—
my staunchest bricks exiled
I left the door ajar
for the guest
to make home upon my cozy abode;
forever.

Tonight the waters of the ocean;
shall resolve once more
to overflow—
my glass of dreams, fragile;
once more, once more.

Brittle bones,
knackered backs
look where have we been,
steaming
bickering
all within,
faltering legs slipping through the streets,

this man;
would you still greet?

Ashen lungs, falling through
bruised hands;
brimming of stench
been home late,
lately—

this man;
would you still put arms around?

old shirt pieces,
spectacles of destiny
uttering broken-frames;
for a new sweater
weaved into his soul-born.

this man,
would you call a miser still?

Look at those fingers,
go across the keyboard—
Look at the tubelight
light those eyes up
all night.

this man
would you still smile for?

For once,
let me know—
this man,
and his tears;
would you bear upon your lap?