There is a lonely shadow that
Roams the street at night in search of her
Body, but she can’t, for it is buried under
The earth without any intention to leave
Its new humble abode; and it dwells there
In peace, and in sorties the ants looking
For pieces to steal and to bring to the
Queen; but the Shadow still wanders and
Travels the earth; the beginning of time
She beheld , and of the end she will be the
Observant; th’ immortal and the most
Docile servant; and no one to talk to and
No one to speak with; so she trails ever
Onward; with no sense and no purpose,
With no one to back her or lend helping a
Hand; so she strides and she cries with no
Hope for an end

The veil of white; no visible
Horizon; the blizzard roars and swirls;
We stand there all alone in this vast world;
Can see nothing but each other; no more
Is important; the lake is encased in crispy
Crust of ice; it creaks and moans under
The gust; the legs are freezing and we
Sway to and fro a little just to save some
Of the warmth; the sky and the horizon are
Aligned into one blank white nothingness;
We know there is a shore beyond there;
But it is hard a thing to believe in, for our
Minds refuse to acknowledge the fact of
Something being way over yonder; and so
We stand and we watch while the lashes
Of the wind scratch our crimson faces
And with the claws strive to tear our skin
And make ours eyes moisten and it is
Almost intolerable an ordeal to merely
Stand there as statues of a time long
Gone and past; but we do stand there
With our gazes staring beyondward
Into the ever-receding and unreachable Unknown

In a very distant land I believe there is a
King; he is old decrepit and withered; no
Servants and no Knaves beside him; no
Queen to be the solace of his miserable
Being; he perched upon his throne and
Do nothing but beholds his sank in
Calamity Kingdom; the old tokens of His
Might and Sway may still be visible;
Bearing no power though; his mantle is
Crimson but dusty and shabby;
Somewhere even stiffened and resembles
A crust; his skin is placid and paled and
Peeling with flakes which fall and mound near au pied of his throne; no sounds
Resound but his moans and groans
From pain or from despair or some other
Misery is not known; but the thing that is
True is the fact that he suffers and craves
For the former boons; he wishes his plight
Was restored to that of an ephebe; but
Alas; leave all thy hopes thou King since
Long Ago of Nothing; forsaken is thy
Kingdom, come no prosper to thee nor
Posterity will thrive nor any herb will reside
These barren lands of yours; for we reap
What we sow and when thou sowest
Tempest
Thou shalt reap the sprouts of
Despondency

In a posture of a Thinker i do
Sit; my head perched on a fist which is
Attached to an arm which concludes
In an elbow which rests on my knee; the
Tile is aquamarine; the door is ajar for
There is some problem with some hinges;
Not enough-ajar to see but sufficient
Enough to notice some discontent on
The visage; the pipe is running through
My place; beginning and ending though
Beyond my sight; so the rest of it does not
Exist; and so my head is proped up and in
My bowels the strife not for life but for
Death cannot come to the conclusion;
No truce is possible i presume; as if
Someone wrings my intestines both large
And small; the wamble or a growl crumbles
My entrails and shakes them trying to
Displace then; all exertions are to no
Good ******* right was Tolstoy as
Always that there is only two truly
Important plights: good health and clear
Conscious; ******* the old man was
Right all along; though when I imagine him
In his loo of the 19th century doubling up
On his throne holding perhaps to the walls
In the moment of the endeavor to push to
Push to push O God to push forward O
Man that connotés to you something
But doesn’t change the fact that you are
Still in that tiled room with no means of
Escape but to fight and push your way
Through Oh there it goes like in the
Hospital they say to you Don’t go to
The white light but go now you must it
Is your time my man come on we’ve been
Through so much so come on go and be
And throes are in the way but that is okay
For This is the Way **** let it be and ohhhh
Bloop; Friction; Flush; off we go and may
Our paths shall never cross

I prefer avoid using the
Public transport; when i have to go
Out early in the mornings, there are
Only two ways as my commute:
The traffic jam, the real queue of metal,
Man; and the sealed can on the rails with the slingshot attached to its roof; not bad
A thing itself; but early in the mornings it is
Usually crowded with scorching, scolding
Despising each other people; hard to
Avoid thinking something negative in a
Place like this; so I would rather just walk
To my place of study; to study people and
Actions and their consequences by the
Mere observing; for ‘tis my the only work
For now: to observe and note

Peeking through the morning haze
Moon in its a-waning phase
Gazes with ever placid face,
Not devoid of any grace,
To behold, observe and mark
Every flutter, cry and bark,
Every drooping of a flower
Bending under dewy bower,
Every ripple in the lake,
Every plant, the true or fake,
To the beholder doesn’t make
It any difference at all;
The dune, the creek, the waterfall,
So different and yet so strange,
So alike to waning Sage