Our Imperfect Existence

Whisper to me endlessly, drunk

    On a strange concoction of

            brazen reality and truth

                                Dignify the death of the

                          hideous esse,

        that was a sore sight for eyes

And run out in the streets

   naked,

     Just as you were the day you came here.

                                                                             

Scribble love ballads on

         deserted streets

     Paint every door with graffiti

   proclaiming your insanity;

        For only the insane

  live life without metal chains

                snapped across their neck,

              Not being,

branded as civilized beings

bearing several witnesses-

           Culture, Religion, Politics

Nothing more than mere pretence,

Nothing more than pawns.

 

Feel the little things

And breathe in their ferocity

And their existence will enshrine yours

Being complementary to your insanity.

 

Hum melodies,

     For the bulbs that flicker every night,

  Always dying, but never dead.

      For the strands of hair that

            curl indefinitely,

    For the rum whisked down in a breath

         That spewed melodies in

             raspy whispers of death,

    For the overgrown climber across the wall

            That grew to the rust

          and dusty bones of nightfall.

 

And your melodies,

rejoicing our imperfect existence,

will be carried by the west wind

And reach my ears as a whisper,

drunk on our existence- raw and unrefined.

 

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