Suspended on the runway,

voices that once coaxed—

"Get well soon,"

“You’ll come back stronger,"

now coo.
The last time we meet—

"Goodbye, bro.”

Break the ***.

Go peacefully.
As the last touch
 on my parchment skin numbs,

the last image blurs,

I pull away, slowly.
Language crumbles,

words collapse,

murmurs, sounds—

hollow, tingling, echoes.
Names, faces, voices fade into fog.

Spinning, spinning, out of control—

no weight, no pull,
no feeling, no pain.
Silence.
Hmmm... so is this how it ends?

Or is this how it begins?

A blank page-
Quiet.
Innocent.
Intimidating.
Possibility.
Freedom.
Beginning.
No judgement.
Pressure.
Always waiting.
It’s time.
A paper plane.

I don't know if you are one for me
I don't know if I am the one for you
But this time I feel so right
So I will just go with the flow

I stand here at the doors of a strange land
Being bid farewell by the parting band
Behind me the bridge burnt by me
I seek the keys to my destiny

I look at the rubble called past
Ahead apprehension and opportunities are cast
Failure, hurt and envy are pitted
Against the edifice I hope to build

Marry me..
err...marry me?
err..will you marry me?
I pop the question
as I look into her eyes
in that dark room lit only by the billboard backlight outside
She puts the table lamp on and looks at me
These few seconds are agonising
as I look at her face lit by the lamp.
Yes?
No?
Need time?
None of the above?

I see you
you see others

I am an address
not on your list

I, silent
you, short on attention

I, understated elegance
you seek the crumpled and crumbled

I, content
you, bored

I, ever present
but for you always a blind spot

Hey, God is missing.
God, who ?
Perhaps he is disgusted, he has left.
Of what ? To where ?
This country, this planet, this galaxy.
He lived here, is it ?
Perhaps he is ill.
May greater immortals bless him.
The temples are empty, a few razed.
But it’s still business out there.
His middlemen have lost touch.
But they are still raking in their commission
Perhaps they have killed him.
Must be turning in his grave then.
No, No perhaps he is moving incognito.
As if he would be recognized anyway.
Perhaps he is watching us from a distance.
People believe they are.
Perhaps he is sick of being used.
That’s OK. Our living Gods complain too when they die.
Perhaps he’ll come back one day to save mankind.
Why take the trouble ?
Our ruler has fled, like the creator having lost control over it’s procreations.
Every ruler needs subjects. This one became the subjects object.
But he’ll return one day.
Till then stay where no man can corrupt thee..