The lonely winding road,
along which I walked,
with the lowly birds of black,
in their murder I was lost.

And I reached a shallow creek,
with the fragments of my heart,
four pieces of coal;
I used one to draw a path.

And a bridge I did build,
and crossed the creek slow,
only to meet my death,
that awaited with the crows.

She asked me for my wishes,
in exchange for what’s in my chest;
One I gave for lust, one for longing,
and the last for a poem to be written, a story before I rest.

And my lust did fail me,
tore through you and me;
a fragile little pretender,
I was but a flea; High on my blood-lust.

And my longing for love did forsake me,
as I writhed in pain;
While she bathed me in darkness,
and her ever-pouring rain.

And my heart now a morsel,
but one little fragment remains;
One little star-let nuke,
that lights my shrouded plains.

So, for the third I wait and watch,
as my poem writes herself;
Let it be narrated,
the day my ashes sit on your shelf.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar