Goodnight

Back on the hewy cot,
The eye within the eye, looks at the eye.
The difference between the worlds;
Tiles that float as a fall from the ceiling and the plaster from the floor.

"It's a good night's sleep" I remind my poor memory;
As everything is torn in the waves of the breaking calm,
The Calm so still, immute and full of tirade,
Like a saboteur from the land of Cold winds and Warm fluids.

Takes me by chance on everything I say,
If I must, then I must not;
The fate in me musters not,
To make it a must in the Must of the seasons;
For I have none of the must to offer, if I must.
Thus, take it by the dust if you must.

Maybe, it still is a good night's sleep.
The tiles and plaster now in an array of erotic passion;
the dust in my mind calling for freedom.
I tell them, that one day they shall be free.
One day, the dust may swirl again.
But, today. As the world is made and made not

in it's mold.                                      Would it stay?
No, surely not.                                but the world is working for the dust!
No dust there must be surely.           We but are, all, nothing but dust.
Too much dust. Must you dare?       I will Must like a mammal if I must.


Goodnight.

For those, who love the Morning Gray Sun.

Cigarettes

The evil that has me sold.


About, four years from now I remember that burning lady I had put on my lips for the first time. It was sizzling away to a slow blast of smoke. Easing, seeping and mellowing the ever engorging activities of the mind welded on my pulsating brain that works like a petard. Slow now the world seems manageable, the reigns flow back in my hands. But there is darkness in the draws made by my being, not so seemingly now.  

Two years back. Stillness. Waiting for me to collapse, feel the slap of water on my cheek as my senses swivel away in morose depth of the cold waters. They are many a maidens of revival on the cost. But none shall set me free. I do not appeal to the eyes. I have caught on with my retarded survival and then it eases me out now.

Sinking low. I feel those memories of niceness escape me in gasps. I will hit stone-dead on the lake-bed.

The cold stilling in me slow. I feel finally the smirk escape me. I pull out the last cigarette and smoke myself the final ease. No pain, no blurry vision nor hindrance of my sickened body. I am home.

The Ink in the Pen writes.

Winning Lifestyles -
How profusely you had to wait.

These trends of a new life, don't appeal much.
Where are the lives of the given millions.
Waiting in lines and ques for a living brew.
Their backs are on the run and front is all torn;
They say that you are the winning and the loss of time.
It's a myth you only live twice.


To be the beaming beacon of the dry starved hopes,
To wring in the Circus of the petulant grope:
"Don't worry, little kid,
It's only worth a dime."
And you keep wondering, if He's ever got time.
To be on the road
Or to be the broad.
It's not worth a thought -
Neither a soul.
It's a myth you only live twice.


To be conquered of Woken,
You must know by now:
that at the break of dawn
It's only what you must leave and then
Live on the behind.
Harken your will and weigh you soul.
It's a myth you only live twice.

Pray the Made and not the Medium.
It's a hoax, your life is sometimes worth a dime.

My While

My long gone last save in the words of your mirth,
Here is where I had toiled.

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