Intoxication
in the name of religion
leads to salvation
of others.

Drinks of power
always shower
egoistic pleasure
of winners.

Alcoholism
reflects mannerism
just as prism
of lovers.

26th March 2017

What is lost
   can never be found
      in the labyrinth of the mind.  

What was it you were seeking
   in this dark and dusty atmosphere?
Now doomed, you are, to find it;
   for you never will escape
The twist and turns of your
   mangled memory;
For what path is there to take?

Your string has been cut by the
   Brute
      Bullheaded
          Beast

Turn  corners
   Just to find dead ends,
Turn back
   To find them gone
With every disconnect
   recollected before dawn.

Then at the Sun’s behest
   The dew turns to rolling fog
     And that, which once was settled,
        Escapes upon the wind

My mind is stirring.
Keep the bottle pouring.
Intoxication taking over.
Pour a little more.
Sight blurry,
Coordination out the door.  
How many times have I been here before?
Thoughts are heavy,
They won't leave me alone.
Drink,
Until their mouths are closed.
No more voices but your own.
Bottle down,
I'm one the ground.
Why am I here again?
Numb and cold.
No one understands.
Am I alone ?

Trees are the veins of the Earth,
Silhouettes against the night.
Trees are the arms of the Earth,
Trying to touch the sky.

If I gaze upon that sight,
Will I too strive higher?
Or be intoxicated,
By the poison of its desire.

We march.
Broken.
Devestated.
Deprived.
Unaware of our destination.

So as an act
Of bravery,
Of sadness or
Of fear.

But all we do,
Everywhere we go
We still need a purpose
We still need our motivation

To escape and live
To re start and re gain
To achieve and destroy
To become and to forget.

But till we find our destination,
We try to die,
We try to intoxicate
But lack to be remembered after death.

We march
For nothing
For the faded
For the shattered
For a forgotten cause

I'd rather be a raisin than a grape
With no juice or sweetness
Desolate of hydration
Dried via sun
Wrinkled and battered
Has endured strife
Became bitter over time

But I'd rather be wine than a raisin
Potent and strong
Powerful in simplistic form
Living only to intoxicate those who consume me

For so naturally time absorbs life
Making one **** with age
Dry from existence
Then robust through struggle

I'd rather be a raisin than a grape, but I'd rather be wine than a raisin.

An empty pub is the worst place to be,
In a city, Where even gods stay a bit longer every year,
Perhaps persuaded by the halcyon laughter of that half dressed street urchin,
Who has learnt to celebrate her comical existence,
In the pregnant underbelly of a false saint,
Who refuses to give birth to anything but naked poverty.

Small wonder the gods have never chosen to intervene in the city of joy,
After all its the fault of these urchins  who refuse to abandon their filthy smiles,
And have the audacity to peak through the walls that we annually paint,
With the victorious colours of human values.

But why do they peek,
Isn't their world filled with the unmatched profoundness of black and white photography?
Isn't their world the home to poetic muses and romantic poverty ?
Indeed, why do they peek ?
Before the label on the bottle in front of me,
Makes you judge the potency of what I utter,
Let me tell you why.

For them our world is a constant theatrical which has run different shows annually,
Yet the only complaint they have perhaps is that the genre of the shows,
Have somehow never changed.

Its always been the darkest of satires,
Like the running satire in which half our society,
Sitting safe within the beautiful walls ,
We built around our indomitable prosperity and culture ,
Indulges,
In the hysterical condemnation of a man,
Who wants to build a beautiful wall on a different continent .
To protect the same

You know, I don't speak urchin-tongue,
But I have always had the gift to read feelings I shouldn’t,
And something tells me the urchins have titled this theatrical,
“Moral *******”.

But that’s not all,
An empty pub is the worst place to be in a city which refuses to let you give up hope,
And gently reminds you with every drink
That even when the rest of the world is out there dancing,
To the drum beats of happy endings and ephemeral farewells,
There’s one place that will never close its doors on you.

The only thing is.
The place isn’t the home you never ended up building with her,
It’s just an empty pub.

And that is why an empty pub is the worst place to be.