Up the creek without a paddle,
in the storm without a coat;
With lies to keep me happy,
whatever may float my boat.
Through endless dreams of starry nights,
dwarfing ash-covered-silent skies;
A flightless bird that sings the tunes,
of morbid lullabies.
The sweet scent of a white dead rose
that lies in a six-foot hole;
The whiff of her petals, marred by the blood,
in a pool of red-black cold.
The acid rain on sands of time,
the sound of rotting flesh;
The eerie screams of a siren’s songs,
the prostituting wretch.
A life of pi’s and apple trees,
of irrational stories of fruits;
With naked, repulsive, men of morals,
and women searching for truth;
In the sadistic storyboard, the game of hate,
the mortal man he sings;
While I leap away from my empty throne
and spread my broken wings.
As the sky falls.
By: Viraj Belgaonkar