green is the colour of the day
not because i'm feeling environmentally friendly
it's the colour of algae growing on the walls of
my worn-out faculties
reverberation ceased to exist
waiting, wanton spirit, for dooms day

It's a blizzard out there
and in here
there's a melancholic shower
that washes the dim lit alley
of my wasted soul

The whirlwinds of living never beats any faster
levelling all sparkle of this mundane world
before sunsets of the heart starts to trickle
there is not a single drop of wonderment left
or any flicker of the weak flame of the mind's eye
battered, bruised and blistered
are the frames of disconcerted spirits.
losing its line of sight
quickly
in
eternity

The lenses of my senses
were kept in pretenious fences
it takes not one but many chances
to uncover and recover the faithful branches
of sanity which the strength of Venus
could not contain the bold untamed monsters
bursting from entrapped glasses
they crawl undisturbed in midnight masses

the silence is deafening
belting out in resounding emptiness

Syncopated Subversion

Prevailing in a non-sequential absentia
the pillar of boredom throws daggers of dementia
that splits the vaults of prudent jocularity
into funnels of raging immorality
subjectivity is flung out of the window
by flippant throngs of anti-gravity disability
guarded frustrations battle the sheer forceful freudian impulses
that consume and ravage the naked truths of human frailty

Constipated Entanglements of Neurological Impediment

contaminated filters of the mental faculty
cannot resolve the weight of improportional injustices
clouding in the sphere of crashed crumpled indecisiveness
only the withered battered laundry of sorrows
could enclose the wounds of yesterday's beer bottles

it's just another day today
so is yesterday
and the day before yesterday
and the day before the day before yesterday
and so is tomorrow
and the day after tomorrow
and the day after the day after tomorrow
in a nutshell it's a day
which is like any other day
and you'd say
it's not fun anyway
because it's not gay
which maybe here to stay
or go away
in a distant way
that might sway
with dismay
to skies of grey
come what may
stacks of hay
may just be a ray
of light on a bay
which i pray
today
in this month of May
that things will be gay

the wind is in harmony today
except it is a dissonant chord!

What shall it profit a man if he gains the whole world?
- anonymous

liking the likeness of a liking
is a thing to behold for a being
that treads softly on this soil for freeing
the pleasures that bind earth's mighty fling
to sting your heart with a pinning
grinding
seeds of satisfaction beneath the surrounding
moment searching for blistering
breath of tomorrow

risen early today
but the sun is cloaked in a grim blanket of grey
almost resisting to show its face to the world
the freshness of morning mist is consumed
by crashing needles of rain
wonder when
the sun will reign again

The rapturous ring of razzamatazz
echoes in the reign of reluctant riddles
that pierces through cells of roaring roasting
in reason's robust reverberation
captured in razor blade sharpness
of time's relentless hand

there is always a cup that is half filled
one that is empty
and one that has a broken handle

Everything is hanging on a thread
that slips through my fingers
in time's relentless flight