My day just slit up!

Here comes

the last act of

my work holiday,

I watch the world

honk and vroom into a

melancholy sunset.

Thank you, luxury.

The little mercy,

my gift for a day

—a slit in the

blinds, bloody binds,

it expands my horizon.

From dour LCD walls,

to a greyish, Lutyens' green.

Ode to the Dying Night

Morning, good! 
The dying night 
I cry for, 
it drags away
my dreams with it, 
to purgatory,
where the lust
is retained,
desires n myths too.
And purity?
That's purged 
in a summer bonfire. 

Fire in the Hall

The wretched hall,
replete with flickering
Super AMOLED minds;
uniform, disciplined
by servers and
a world-wide shackle.

The ergonomic aisles
fuel a relentless
quest for perfection.
But bastard, you,
perfection is a myth,
while our existence
is but a mere conspiracy
hatched by the internet. 

Men at Work!

They dug pits for me,
every night did the king's men,
as I called it a day at office
to say good morning to love!

The cycle rolls, even now,
a sick, slow n steady workflow!
But Psalms force them to
fill it up in the mornings,
my coffin's not ready yet,
they forget the zen too;
for they still are hard at work, 
lining their gut with cancer
cells to end their sorry stories
in pain... So it's written!

Crisscross

I cross this strait,
once a day now.
Once upon... a life time ago;
it seemed like life, twice over,
the rush to find my space,
but the calling 
was never heard,
now or even then.

Morning, it was then,
the push for a young heart;
it is in repeat now,
but just half a tread at a time
for this another man in me,
noon it is now.

None to watch my back,
the burn spreads there;
sweat trickle and tickle
down the neck till it
becomes an itch
that drives me further,
a li'l farther, down that path
of no return...
Where I will lose the 
original sin in me to age;
and the will in me 
to the measured
words of an editor,
out of control, out at large!