Frailty- Thy name

The puddles of water, lead to a random thought,

About the filth this city has introduced me to.
My conscience keeps wiping my mind clean,
My soul is tired, always seeking avenues new.

What have I wanted from life, really?
A plain, simple and stainless existence.
I am a well learned man,
Do not expose me to pretence.

The short story of my short life,
I will someday share.
With people who don't give a damn,
But read them as if they care.

The story would be real but not new,
The world has since ages known the same.
A man is perhaps born immoral,

But frailty never had another name.

The seventh phase of life

This is a world beyond repair,
Rectification is impossible.
Ignorant people, full of pride,
At the drop of a hat- helpless, gullible.

No moral order, I can seek here.
Always right was Shakespeare.
But such awe of the stage?
Everyone breathing is a player?

Writing a story is not worthwhile,
Each person is at max a chapter.
But words are still the best place,
To bury a character.
In the real world,
Death is the ultimate master.

With heavy steps and heavier hearts,
Fresher perspectives need to be sought.
The Game? To each one his own.
Yours truly must chase a novel thought.

Genesis 1:3

The world in turmoil,

Chaos everywhere around.

The poet in a crisis of his own,

No light, No sounds.

Dark have been the days,

But no fucks given tonight.

God instructs himself-

Let things be “ Lite” .

Happiness!

Is’nt that a welcome sight?

Happy faces, happy lives?

Sunshine and flowing locks of hair,

Some clean mountainous air.

What does this world need?

If not happy lives, at least, happy stories.

This one needs to be left untouched,

It is one fine ending, no worries.

In his quest for suffering,

The poet must move on.

Stuck neck deep in the past,

He needs a muse to come along.

Too busy scribbling amateurish poems,

Or trying to write that perfect song,

He must concentrate on tragic prose now,

It is perhaps, sometimes, not too late to right a wrong.

He has known hope,

Slightly distorted lips, really big eyes.

Now that he wishes to no longer cling on,

She just refuses to die.

But isn't it always right,

To let stories meet a natural end?

Natural is subjective, open to possibilities,

Exploring that, is my intent.

Ashutosh is dying,

He has little time left.

It is time to dedicate him a story deft,

Before he has permanently slept.