he doff'd his cap, all suave and urbane,
i am the idol you serve in vain,
i am the recognition of people around,
ephemeral honour to which you are bound,
as you can see i'm nothing but air
it's all in your mind. I'm not really there.

he sat by himself
the man by the fire
sipping his wine
nursing his ire
thinking of those times, of the years gone by,
the children laughing, the jostle, the cry,
watching them grow, each in their fashion,
this one was gentle, this one with passion,
now they're gone as moonlight that flitters,
he's left with those thoughts, a memory that glitters,
the wars of love, of hurt and despair,
as he sips his red wine, alone in his chair.

If all the world were monochrome,
black and white like a funeral home,
layers of grey of different shades,
gloom and doom of deepest hades

if colour was something you read of in book,
an out-world experience of an LSD hook,
then all at once someone switched on the light
and wow what a difference before you in sight

how your spirits would lift as you looked round in wonder
at the greens and the mauves and the blues over yonder,
the bricks of the wall in shades of red coral,
the yellows and limes of the willow and laurel,
faces of scarlet, of softness of pink,
depth and complexity of a master craft's ink,
what a wonderful world that would be to be in,
aye --- a wonderful it is, to be in.

hah hah! human hate hackles,
laughter lunges long lacerators,
carves crucifying cutting crackles
covert cutthroat collaborators.

until when the falling petals
until when the drops of blood
until when the wasted essence
until uncurls new flowerbud

a drop of ink on parchment
lines spreading black on white
so the soul in flesh apartment
spreads its rays in black of night

Somebody’s child is crying – who threw their crush; their infatuations
cast aside like pebbles scattered upon the shore, each one a fragment
of that unrequited love. Yet, was it not a chore; to tidy up your deeds,
and striving for perfection akin to the grains beneath the ocean’s
floor? All the tears I’ve poured into the sea were swallowed by the
ocean’s depths; I wept so fiercely that the world around me, I could
barely see.

Somebody’s child is crying – just as the pivotal words were about to
unfurl; they lay there, crushed by the weight of the receding tide. A
face marred by sorrow, with nowhere to seek refuge – why is it that
the broken are masters of masquerade, donning a façade of joy while
harbouring a heart in despair?

Somebody’s child is crying – a forgotten avian adage whispers in
the wind; you could have soared through the skies of your dreams,
had you not grown cold feet as you had caught a mind flu. You are
a beauty never to surrender to yourself, yet vanity is but a fleeting
pleasure that will inevitably fade with time. Even the famous must
eventually fade into memory; every piece you love of someone, is a
part of your own personality. Perhaps the disdain you feel for another
is merely a mirror, revealing the parts of yourself you wish to deny.

Somebody’s child is crying – and that child is you, but you can’t hear
yourself.