where has the world swung
vanished quietly
into the cold outside
and inside
voices speak to yesterday
and wonder why
feelings hear tomorrow
yet refuse to die
the world seems to appear
a gaping wound
surrounded by gore
of all the years
a large yo yo
dangling
from a white beard
unwashed and tangled
another world swings in
on gollum’s hair
reeking of fish
and heat
it hits the wound
and rebounds
was that world real
or is this one?
6:40am
21st sept, ’11
No face, darkly etched, from charcoal,
No word, that can form any prose,
No light, at the end of the tunnel,
No calm, to lend the mind repose.
Words there were, many years ago,
A promise to see the heart through,
The sun shone bright on butterflies,
On anticipation of the new.
Sadness and grief are siblings now,
They have their own stories to share,
It’s charming in their company, too,
They make for a creative pair.
I fear listless indifference,
That’s maneuvering towards me,
Like some fog on a dead cold sea,
Sending a sail down to captivity.
Inspiration waits for those who seek her,
Like some whore on a barren door;
But what of those who chose to love,
And are loved by Neglect forever more?
The past too, spreads her milk-white thighs,
In that softness lies no morrow;
And what can future present
Wrapped tight in her bliss or sorrow?
As day turns to long, lonely night,
The eyes feel heavier than the night before,
I may slip into the dark of the past
Or let Neglect make life a bore;
I may move towards that fog-ridden sea,
Away from this pox-ridden whore.
Why was there a second chance,
When you yourself do believe:
The deceiver’s heart
Beats but to deceive?
When has the scorpion
Changed enough as a friend,
That the frog who carries him on his back
May just get to see a different end?
More fool you, fool, fool you,
Who knows change in essence
Is but a mere adaptation
Of just an overt difference.
Then how do you know?
And how do you feel?
If only you could stop your heart,
Or rather, squash it with your heel.
Still, this is mere rhetoric;
And your world is delusion;
So the only sane thing to do
Is be a god of illusion.
What do I write or say and to whom?
As the world, you, too, remain the same.
If only you could adapt, dear fool,
To cruel rules of this callous game.
Hearts Still Care 
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