.
Lear wanders in stormy open, bares warring elements,
The heavens blister, crackle, night is balmy shroud,
Wretched monarch babbles in sprinkles of wind cold,
Arguments lost by ones own pouring perturbations
And raining sky said 'nothing will come from nothing.'

Howl, howls into blackness treed in lightning splits,
His outcast soul, reels, fleshed, cut to smithereens,
Tang of salt burns on the bluffs and the sea rages,
So entire and ceremonious is Lear's fall meted out,
Air spoke, 'nothing from nothings ever yet was born.'

Sky proclaimed to man child King, here is a reckoning,                            
Each mad choice was self infliction, now wind flays
And sweet Cordelia lies in her innocent **** grave,
Sky, in thralls of thundering asks, 'what say thee now,
King of highborn follies, even purple heaths are rags,

Yet black and above you and night shades, whine,
Unworthy King, done in by compounded effects,
The might of maelstroms in low butterflies wings,
How now, bare trees, knifing reeds, skeletal flashes,
To rains of night are ever your lanyards my lord,'

Sad Lear so near oblivion fell mute, sky went on,
'Howl and cry mad King your reaper calls beyond,
The icy brisk heavens await to brusque you away,
Your slipshod kingdom was mere and fools' dream,
Howl, til howls abrupt abate, for nothing now comes.'
.

Sometimes I remember the scorn of my family,
Effigies of bloodlines crossed into a tired face.
I remember my mother,
Her vice was appearance-
Not her own but that of others.
Every day was judgment
She’d pick us before we bloomed and left wilted children
Questioned the lack of fruit
Not with self-deprecation but with scorn
How dare we cross the farmer who sowed the seeds and watered the crops?
How dare we look towards the sky for comfort?
When that cold trowel could dig in our necks.

I remember one time my mother asked me if she was the problem
A lie, I’ve heard that question many times
How can you curse a broken human more than she does herself
And somewhere in my head, I justify it
Consider the kindness built on vanity to be kindness nonetheless
Flowers do not need to be alive to be beautiful
They can be so frailed and dried up they become immortal
A crumbling tombstone of decay
And we marvel at them
And I remember that I am a product of my mother

In a kingdom full of inclemencies my hubris does not fail me
Profuse and Fierce, Some may call me arrogant
'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It's a recording of my failings.  
'It's that amorality,' I muttered.

My hubris is my substratum towards my nescience.
It is that aspect that will lean me towards drowning in the sea of my own incoherent imbecility.
It's a deep program in my faulty code, a nightmare towards monks.
It's the ink on my arms, tattooed to my soul.

'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It does not fail to show in my wording.
It's the ferry to sea, the net in the ocean.
It is limber as it is inventive, with every exception.

It has no ingenuousness, it is unlike modesty and threatens to surmount me.
It's a sandwich in which has caught every hitch of breath, it leaves me bewitched, no certain pitch that I can tell afore it chokes me.
It leaves no correspondence with those around me, too caught up in my own fantasies that I can no longer celebrate or verbalize felicitously.

Many times I wished that I preserved my receipt so that I could trade in my Hubris for something a little less mucusless for it is something akin to Judas, and I cannot utilize it for anything utilizable.

If I could somehow find a way that would lead me to a resilient recuperation. I would judge that to be more utilizable then this Hubris that encumbers me. No matter how many times I beat it down, it war's like a lion and a bunch of tourists on a safari.

If only this grotesque lion-like hubris was shot by the doter of a hubris poacher. Every generation would be gratified and they would find that it is much more facile to coerce without that unpleasant Hubris.

Of course, I suppose in a way hubris could be utilizable in some situations that required it. If I somehow found a way to trade my hubris for something like modestly and found that I missed my hubris quite dearly. I would laugh at my incoherent imbecility and perceive myself to be remotely mad!

These ravings of my hubris I'm quite sure because I found it so consequential to indite a poem of stark preposterousness. In a contingency like this, I suppose my hubris is getting quite polished, so sharply able to strike down any sense of modesty.

I conjecture this is the terminus of this arrangement, please omit my hubris for a moment. I suppose I should give you some tea afore I dose myself in a salubrious dose of radiation.

One day I will transit beyond
My strives and thrives to drop.
Then, you will tell tales of my kindness
Or tales of my weakness
Lo, I won't hear none!

With time, I will be a memory
Once in a while you will remember my stories
My smiles or nags will flash in your mind
You may regret for not being there
You may even doubt my being holy.

Well, one day I will be gone
My body in the ground alone
And spirit in another world.
No more me to hate or love
Time to count your gain or loss.

One day I will be dust
Left alone with no more lust
My sins and truths before Him
That moment to harvest my truths and faults
The one that outweighs one determines my cross.

Indeed, one day you will wake up in the cold
You will meet my body with no soul
What will be the reason for your cry?
Or will you celebrate it with a smile?
Surely, one day will define our vain lives.

Today, when I was free;
I thought of doing a poetry.
My eyes rolled up and down randomly.
Yet, nothing came by me.
Thinking.
Oh! Butterfly, a good thing to write.
I wrote:
" Butterfly, beautiful is your fluttering flight."
And then I was blank.
And stopped. Went on a river bank.
Thinking, maybe fish will do.
Yet, there's no ripple, no clue.
I tried laying on meadow.
My eyes, up and high, sky says much.
Yet, nothing, I could hear such.
Disappointed.
I paddled home, no more I could spare;
These days, my poetry are rare.
Exhausted.
I collapsed in my bed- empty.
Thinking.
Oh! Better be the poem- my vanity!

A Lad

Since they spoke
And made me do,
I saw they cut a joke,
And I did too.
Why they hit me then
I didn't know.
I learned by myself
And did grow.
Then I saw them and
How they spoke;
I laughed at them when
They cut the joke.

S. Bharat

Vanity stole me
Vanity corrupted me
Vanity tranquilized me
Vanity disrupted me

These lines have me thinking wrong thoughts, thoughts that are of uncanny nature and vain thoughts of selfishness and unhealthy erotica.
Vanity took all the sanity away from the head, and left me alone, not even therapy can stabilize me, I rebuild my soul.
I'm out of my mind, and I'm yellin' out, vanity
...
Like a drug itself, these lines are like decaf and vanity is my addictive curse.
Addiction not to the drug, but to the feeling of such an intense self love, it eats you up inside, you take the substance to escape the sinful feeling.
Logic, and proportion, all dead.
Losing myself,
Get out of my head.
Get out of my thoughts.

My efforts have vanished
Gone like the wind
Gusts have blown them away
Its true that vanity exists
Not many people stay