You always wanted a bullet ,

A bullet to shoot down the ghosts of your past
And bleed meaning ,
From the darkness ,
Of the dreams you cast
Until the wordsmith in you ,
Bothered to remember;
Your past is already dead,
It’s the Eighth of September .

“A bullet’s too quick” ,
I hear you weep ,
“Plus gunpowder costs ,
While my dreams are cheap”
The modesty of ******,
Undisguised in that line
Lead me to propose,
Cheap country wine .

High on the eureka,
We walked into a bar ,
And asked for a pint of poison ,
Preserved in a rusty jar ,
But then ,
The Bartender asked , for age proof from you ,
Alas ,
One of us was sixteen , the other was two

coughs

Heartbroken,
We got drunk on our memories ,
While it was still free,
It might be the age of reason ,
But death still came , at a cost you see
We drank and drank,
Until the wordsmith in you ,
Bothered to remember
Your past is already dead,
After all ,It’s the Eighth of September.

“But i still want a bullet “
To my surprise you ask ,
“ To shoot down your poetry ,
And the lameness they mask”

Such are the dangers of having a friend
Who would not just follow ,
But guide you ,
To your very end.

Winter Love, never did last till spring ,
Who knows what the year , is fated to bring;
And yet i say , somethings are meant to last,
Unlike petty parchments of our past .

We are separated by worlds ,
Of the same **** city ;
But even parallel lines ,
Do meet at infinity.

‘Tis your pennies that make me pound,
Like a shepherd mourning his fallen hound ,
Such is the death of my drunken pride ,
That makes winter , a poet’s bride .

‘Tis your comfort , I wish to skin,
And the game of chance , that scripted your win,
Such is the shine of a tanner’s hide,
That make’s winter , a poet’s bride .

‘Twas your charity that made me wait,
On the doorsteps of your divine’s hate ,
Such are the Churches I laid aside ,
To make winter, the Poet’s bride .

Realization Strikes

I can’t rhyme my way to the kingdom of warmth
But I can roam the streets ,
Like I always did ,
In search of warmth

And Roam I did

I roamed that Street ,
Where the City pretends to be what its not .
I roamed those Hearts who call that Street,
Home of their Christmas thought .
I roamed it all ,
Till the fairy lights were there to help me see ,
But Alas ,
I found no warmth where they promised it would always be ,

But Instead ,

Not Far away from the echoes of the city making merry .
I found an abandoned cemetery,
And in the Sea of unmarked graves,
I heard the voices of forgotten braves;
And So,
I learnt the art , Of braving the Chill,
Without a survivor’s iron will  .
I learnt to sleep without a care ,
And immune I became to winter’s nightmare .

Shed my blood, can you ?
Like you shed your guilt;
Or suffocate me in ,
The world we together built.
But then,
A painless death ,
Is too much to ask;
From a stranger hidden,
Beneath a lover’s mask.

So ,
Am I your Midsummer’s Night Dream laid bare ?
For you are my Midsummer’s Nightmare

And Yet,

One last time ,
Can you take away my breath?
For a ***** I am,
Who makes love to death.
And Where once desire thrived ,
Now Darkness Plays;
The lingering tunes,
Of my final days.

So ,
Am I your Midsummer’s Night Dream laid bare ?
For you are my Midsummer’s Nightmare