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.

Ashutosh

As his blood thins by the day,

His words desert him,

Tired of the long thirty odd years,

His chances are slim.

A man lonelier, I have never seen,

He is like fungi, on shit he has grown.

Fuck lovers and friends,

Even a family he has never known.

How do I comfort him?

I am a tough dog now, I don’t cry.

I wish I could showcase his life for him.

But let it be. Let the poor man die.

Fantasies, a poet can’t live by,

I wouldn’t bother asking why.

Can’t help free people acting shy,

Some people don’t get to say goodbye.

She

The canvas I wished to paint,

Eternal love, Lived by a mortal.

The world says will be forever incomplete,

Doubts have bugged me too, sans the bottle.

I hate why stories last so long,

Let one of them die, write them a song.

The protagonists however manage to live,

 And bring irrelevant characters along.

But I really hope that you live,

And I too manage to beat time.

And if not now, if not in this world,

Someday, somewhere, you shall be mine.

Till then, we breathe.

Mediocrity

For a major part of my life,

I have cursed my luck.

I let her be the bitch she was,

And never gave a fuck.

Now, in the hindsight, I see,

She was always with me.

No matter how I screwed up in life,

She would get me to where I needed to be.

All I had to do, was to go with the flow,

But the skeptical me, would just wait.

Have I not done things I was supposed to do? Of course.

But always, below expectation and too late.

Epics

Romanticism, is what this poet lives by.
Not read a single love epic- Have often asked myself why.

Would not have let myself get influenced,
By a story lived or imagined by someone else.

Is it not for the soul, to find and live its own love?
To each, its own- Unique is the experience.

Have I not loved the way one is supposed to love ?
Have I not lived my own epic?

If there is a God up there,
I will let him testify; he can take his time.