In pursuing a career he wanted to be that whom inspired him, she wrote. “So he decided to be, and then thus he became.” But in the words of his father, of late has taken illness, he could not understand why his own kind would not be that of his own kindred blood which by forsaken creed had suddenly consumed him. This sickly blood, she added, suddenly became an illness; the fatigue was too great. All was lost.

There he walked, in a mountain fought, and slowly climbed. Then he shrugged. Then he sobbed. It all seemed too much, all at once. He is no mountaineer, but he simply wants to climb a mountain. He was no man, but he hopes one day to become a man. This much, his mother wrote to her sister, who since recently was under a great melancholy for ill choices she made that could never be reversed. “Oh! I am sorry for all I’ve done! The men, the wine, and all the tricks I’ve endured. It was not to be.” Though, her brother might add that he would not want to be deserted by a woman just like his sister; but perhaps to be imbued with new wisdom as to how to live with one.

Near the mountain peek, gossip for months soon called at bay. For months, our dear fellow climbed a metre closer to the tip; as much as each day his mind felled closer to the dip. It was like he wanted to break himself so that each piece can be collected overtime then brought together with each piece part of a new image that formed the basis of his own. Though the pieces have not changed, though the image has changed, the very essence upon which these images carry is now part of something greater. That greater essence became his meaning. It became his life. In essence, his life is the sum of why. Life no longer ceased meaning; it augmented the story.

His mother closes the letter with a solemn wish that once her son reaches the tip of a mountain he may at least come down and never return to the tip. “For what it is the base without its peaking stone?” He would ask. So casually it was, but she could not even answer, for she has never travelled the heights he would. Sooner or later, he would know the answer and once he does, he would have part of the meaning he needed to live.

At the station

A bench lay hollow in the utmost sphere,

Who knew but could not be at its dear,

Nor mail would drive it to the yesteryear,

So turn a callous cage whom thwart to greater fear,

But not said much luck in hope the guy does sit,

And leaving whence to board new lamps lit,

Though he ought and this he must ought

To dampen all spirits will tears cold be brought;

No tears are warm when the fire burns bright,

And here we hold man in mind to heart distraught

So soon he breaks to dark and sorrow down,

In all smiles and memory he could only frown,

Last his train had come board his life aways,

But could not hear nor see the other at bay,

This man whose drunken stupor is all but ways,

Found himself poking words sans base decry,

So some attention be brought to he his mum deny,

But could not! Couldn’t hear nor see. All lost.

Lost was the drunkard in fate’s lasting capture,

His words now critique the man in rupture,

With every second the death of he and he arrived,

But it was not his ego when last rest survived,

So finally that train went and the last another,

Age was brought much the crickets to bother,

So doors be opened, more people at large,

A first glance he took and all now is barge,

Then he boards the train and sits a while,

Nor legal weep and plead naive shall be vile,

For the train is gone and how fast it travels,

The lamps dimmer and soon his life unravels.

When you’re alone

Is steadfast but haste to make,
In mute but bird is sung heart,
Nor better is walking this day ought,
For brew in beer and sung in wine is day,
Little by little, hopes and dreams unfold,
Some day, there was a wild boar to chase
That never ended with hearts unfold; so
Take this time to grieve the loss of dread,
So fear the loss of utmost dread, and never
Call the heathens that bake your soul today.
I call myself alone because I am a heathen,
I am a murderer of my own soul who begs mercy,
Thinking back at all the life I could have had,
At some point in childhood I remember saying no,
And some point I remember knowing what I didn’t,
But looking at the stars I can see a light:
The Universe is enveloped in the womb of darkness,
When all is woe, when all is without hope, know that
All that comes out of the darkness becomes existence;
For you are existence, and your lonely is a reality.
When your story ends on the final note with no remorse,
That alone has more value than a copy of the original.
When it is time to say goodbye, remember the story.


Let all in sight succumb at bay,
Whom no air can wrest this day,
Hearts be wrung in strings of gold
Nor tighter than belts y’soul to hold,
Nor looser than fabric start to bend,
Ere lingering dread is but foe to fend,
And the weeks soon fall on day, night,
And years whistle with truth too right,
Who knew all along what action take,
But could not think which step to fake,
So sat are the ones who dream too big,
So forget Adam and Eve their taste of fig,
On whose glory came God’s demise,
On whose exile came more to rise,
Yet what they feared is what they sought,
If it could not have been, then it was nought,
They did it well and so others shall sway,
If one can fight back, more shall lead the way.

Moving Faster

For it was not the leaves who asked faster,
No. They joked with time in little passing,
Did I ask for my life to be taken away?
Should I give myself to time for better life?
Let God decide where my road falls short to fall,
So never find me weeping in a mess to know,
The art is gastric so my stomach shall implode to sink,
The mink I wore is now simple and plain. As am I.
>Now I see my clones walking around, dancing like bots;
Now, they’re the real me. I am a shade of code to compile,
If not my soul, then least my logic shall least decompile,
Nor never have I sung the words divine, in heavens soon
So divine. But I lack the love to hurt me more to live,
For I never sought the one to challenge me lest I the same,
Now give me grief I had no adventure to survive,
If I were dead now, I will be awoken now to danger revive.

Different Shades of Man – I

Thought he ought be made calculable,
Though more he thought made culpable,
Did bear witness his instincts so cruel in cage,
No less he saw himself his past is writ to page,
For he cannot see past himself the man he ought,
As it was always the animal he better sought,
So leapt from birth with tears of agony and despair,
He could not surmise first his straitjacket to repair;
Donned since birth and so carry to his death,
Not in silk, not in wool; nor blood nor breath,
But it shall be his skin, tis only one to show renew,
And so he makes reason for suffering in shadow’s hue,
To bite the tips of skin from finger and thumb to pass,
If not his art shall then seek needle in skin trespass;
If it is not in ink, then it ought be substance to crave,
So walks in, ready for a mane joked be bought deprave,
Now he’s a new man in black and white: no single lie
For bigger times ahead and then his instincts deny,
So too he comes at large once more he swears divine,
So he makes mask for himself and swears all to wine.

Different Shades of Man – Prologue

Know no more the new thesis,
Indeed this plight I cannot treatise,
The art of magnificence in shadow
So far wretched and glees in meagre throw,
This I cannot spell, nor mine eyes write
Yet despair is come with and laughed right;
The art he dignifies slowly corrupts a soul,
And never, nor never, did he sheath his pole,
Lest he walks and never would laugh again,
So told the various men whose curse is gain.
So surpass God’s alternative, he ought to say,
And dare not the words he bought at bay,
How grateful is the mare the rides too fast,
So sooner he resigns in larks to distant past,
Nor woos his bark the wrinkles sharp too sad,
Nothing; nothing; tis mortal fool to deny so bad,
The nature he was; the past he was, all forgiv’n,
Not whether, so tether his heart to strings given,
To never deny, his life what once it was so grand,
Who could never relish this man he ought to brand.