I gave you a place to rest your head
I let you
Share my sheets
And in return
I found
All my secrets roaming the streets

Why is it that people commit suicide?
Is it because they can't see all the good around them?
Or because they can't see the good in themselves?

There are nights
when we can't see
any reason to keep
waking up
to this hell
to this pain
to this hurt
to this nightmare
to this lie
to this life

because the more you sleep
the more you dream
and dreams are a fragile shelter
but it's the only one we have

Will I ever find home?
I seek the shelter of not just a house
but a sense of place
where I can find a purpose

Will I ever find home?
I thought I did once
but it was only an empty room
filled with cheap thrills and long nights at bars

Will I ever find home?

I was drunk,
Lying on the Delhi Street,conked,
I was thrown out of a bar nearby,
I can't remember why?
I woke with a start,
I found myself in a cart,
Pulled by a shabbily dressed man
With a tattered turban,
And a ragged **** cloth round his waist.
Was he here to collect waste?
Not to ask I thought best.
I threatened him to stop,
Or I would call the cop.
Immediately he put the cart down,
He thought I was gone!
We had a long talk,
His sorry tale made me baulk,
Made me sober.
He was a corpse collector,
With a six year old daughter.
For a few miserly rupees,
He collected corpses,
From the alleys and streets,
And performed their last rites.
The corpses were mostly of those who died of cold,
Their stories untold.
The man had no home,
Come rain,cold or storm,
They lived under an old building's  dome.
The little girl with him tagged along,
Looked at life as a song,
Never a complaint,
The little grubby saint.
On cold frosty days,
To stay warm,the only way,
The corpses became the child's blanket,
She cuddled amongst them as if in a basket.
Tears welled up in my eyes,
This was reality, not lies,
The strings of my heart broke,
From a lifetime of dreams I woke,
I have to turn the hands of the clock,
The Almighty had cleared my vision,
I was sent here for a reason.
I made up my mind,
Gambling and drinking I left behind.
I adopted the pair,
On the same street,I opened a Shelter,
For the needy and underprevileged,
And a Home for the aged.
In life I found my mettle
With wife and children I am settled.
I also work with other NGO's
For the betterment of people's lives.

Within a forest of gray leaves
Like little flames devoid of heat
Missing their color like a ghost
Just shadows of what once had grown.

Enclosed by trunks and trees so lost,
Covered in twigs and withered moss,
Never been loved, never been found,
Just lonely bones above the ground.

Dead petals dance with ghostly plants
To frozen wind and silent chants,
A requiem of crumbling skulls,
A hymn for all their decayed hulls.

Silvery mists of countless lies,
Swallows all of the forest's cries,
Fog masks the guilt of countless sin
That brush and grass carry within.

Amidst all of this hopeless mold,
A shed stands strong against the cold,
A house so lonely yet so warm,
Held in the forest's dying arm.

The place where I once hid myself,
'tween ****** books in rotten shelves,
The place where I live on my own,
Made of my flesh and crimson bone.

As the drizzle begins
The butterfly hides
Because paper
Cannot glide
When wet
Fall

When the clouds roll storms come
We put pain aside
Cold makes us numb
And pain dies
Forget
All