The wrongs we have shelfed
Growing retrogressively
Strayed far, home's long lost

As a kid i thought i was so bright
that my thoughts and eyes held candle to moonless nights
Big dreams slowing my memory like an over loaded android phone
Back then, dreaming was my sin, my only felony
But years and age walked me into reality
Then i realized, there is nothing wrong with dreaming
The only wrong therein is not waking up to live it.......

My woman told me that drinking beer increases creativity. Now, I don't know whether that's true or not; but in this case, I'll put my faith in modernity. I'm drinking a can of Holsten Pils (there are other lagers available), and it's safe to say that I've aged a few years, since my uncle was laid out on the table. He drank beer. I remember that clearly. He was the only real person in my family, and for that I held him dearly. We built a bunk-bed for my brothers one summer, and he whistled throughout the day. For that day he was almost a father; for that moment, absence went away.

His death was inevitable, and we knew of its coming for years. It is because of this that I have accepted fate, and an eternity of tears. His muddied grave is a disgrace to his flesh, to the life that he lived, and to the friends he addressed. Now but a rotting Christian symbol, to remember an atheist; now but an unvisited grave, for those he loved dearest. So, I shall drink to my uncle, my makeshift father. For each Christmas he spent, drunk on cheap lager.

The old stars petrify in place.
Stone-set heartache over sequences
of bar and melody;
they remind us of pain immortalised
in the human race, and that in itself
is enough to fill your curtains
with happiness.

I miss the blind Parisian Busker.
The old tunes over the river
as I feigned language;
as I swelled in my heart at the
sight of the branches under
faint March sky. Tears roll down,
and I am a soft fool once again.

I remember being seventeen.
I remember looking up at
the night sky;
attributing its hue and old knowledge
to that of an infinite God.
Now that cruelty is self-evident,
nature has no need for Him.

Now I scan the world
and land my eyes delicately on beauty
as a butterfly in grassland;
unworthy pilgrim of temper and waste,
I feel nature has no place for me
either. Without art and old sentiment,
there would be no place for me at all.

There are a thousand lovers
for us in the world. They fidget
in bus-stops;
excuse themselves in queues
and stay in for a fortnight
for every moment spent alone
in a group of old friends.

They cry in their bedsheets.
Lamenting love and lack of poetry
in everyday life;
they hold old songs to their chests
to keep them warm in the winter,
and they re-animate the limbs
of heroes sleeping in the mud.