Blink,

Thrice upon a life-time,
He fought a battle;
He wanted to win;
How badly, I doubt.

Riddles.

Let's buy the white-tipped red caps.
Saint Nicholas.
Where do you get all your money?

Angels fly down, without fuel.
Without a ticket for every mile travelled.
But if, it's not a myth, how can it be material?


Makes sense, maybe.
For music comes at a price too.

Unimportant.

And, then, there comes a point, when nothing makes sense anymore.
But why? How?
A game of chess can be the example.
All the elaborate designs, evil, or otherwise.
Narrowed down to two squares.
White or black, not important.
Checkmate.
But why? How?

Men should have remained monkeys.
The brain is not a blessing.

Stark.

The curse gets worse.
The patience, like penance.

The wait for the knell.
He knows, very well.

It's all synonymous, now.
Death, despair, desire-less-ness.
It gets simpler somehow.
Internal processes.

The bull's eye blurs.
A blessing.

The Synopsis.

Old songs from a long forgotten city
Playing in the vicinity.

The memories of worn-out winters
Frequenting cerebral borders.

And then, a crisp moment
Brittle in its essence.
Wipes out the rest.

The lop-sided walk, going forth and back.
Feet carved out of the familiar track.

Deep in thought, deep in pockets
Moist eye-lids, painful sockets.

And then, a whiff.
The inherent gift.
Constancy of conflict.

Pointless exceptions to the rules they make
Living an existence that's utterly fake

The big picture, I remember,
The universe, I surrender.

And then, comes the calm after the storm;
The despair they fight, becomes the norm.
Two arms embrace the forlorn.

I Smirk.

The blue cotton threads,
Weaving in and out;
Breathing in and out,
The cold, wet, winter breeze;
A reminder of what that was.
Few, that brought smiles.
Fewer, that had hurt.
A testimony to what is,
And to the anticipation
Of what will be.

At the dark ends
Of the brightly-lit tunnels,
I smirk.