A hundred books,
a million words,
and a black guitar named Beth;

Ten’s of stories,
some lucid poems,
and metal music of death.

Substance-induced
organic dreams,
alcohol adventures in the night;

A boxed up heart,
a forgotten past,
drenched in pyrotechnic light.

A rainy walk,
a meaningless chat,
with a friend, a stranger the same;

A few grey tools,
from my arsenal I use,
to play the existence game.

While I dance with my body and mind in asynchronous frenzied fray.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar