How to Age a Poem

​A few lines,

which, in its existence,

is older than the writer,

the bard, 

who scribbled the words

when he was in his 40s.

Now, how will a child

grow older than her father?

If the verses were written

with an half empty rum bottle

kept dangling near 

the pen that is showing its age;

and if it is read over wine,

a young, angry, red bottle,

the cheapest possible blend,

cheaper than the recited words....

Then, it grows old, the poem;

the writer gets younger,

and we all heave in

the brown, polluted,

yet sensuous air... 

So, shall we?​

-- Leslie 

Ire in the Sleeping Hall

In a daze, time leaves me,

always.

it's midnight,

I am yet to shed my skin,

and sprawl without shame,

without the ironies

that define​ me,​​ 

and ​the hour's light blue light!

12, the reminder

comes with youthful vigour,

shake me up;

but I waste another hour

in jest,

mocking myself,

killing the ​words of 

​birds ​who ​tweet​​​​ for salary.

Dazed, bruised, 

yet in unpopular consciousness,

I remain,

till sleep wakes me up,

splashes ire on my face,

​cleanses my ​mouth 

off bad poetry,

and tucks me into bed.

​-- Leslie 

Isle of Dreams

​Is there anyone here

who could let me in?

I stand as an outsider,

in the rain,

despite years of toil

to get accepted into

the various dreams I weaved,

saving some as songs,

many more as visions of grandeur,

and nightmares to bore my soul.

They let me breathe in my sleep​.​

​The deep sighs

whistle through the stale air

over my bed,

like the breeze at a beach

carrying the salt ​of my existence

to an isle afar​ where

​proud n loud neon billboards​ scream​.

Free entry for all, they say,

but caution: Kids at play!

-- Leslie Xavier