Broken wings,
feathers torn,
living image
of the crimson born.

Fighting sanity,
inside my head;
Painted in stains.
of the blood I’ve bled .

Dry eyes
and broken bones,
severed nerves,
and a heart of stone.

A patient man,
been waiting long,
tired of singing,
the same old song.

In a hazy room,
with a dusty bong,
and rusty guitar strings,
playing along.

With dreams of vikings,
and Valkyries and elves,
I’m just tired,
of being my-self.

I’d rather be,
who never was,
never shall be,
never the cause.

Never captured,
never free,
the hollow soul
of infinity.

Never empty,
never bare,
I need a holiday,
outside my lair.

I’ve grown tired of being stuck in my head,
alone with my self, the wayward dead.
And I’m tired, of being who I am,
I need a break from this noisy tramp.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar