So Close

Needing a nudge

A literal push

Just a little start

Through the viscous media

Don't judge

Indeliberate ambush

Pulling all apart

My abhorrent foolish idea

I won't budge

I won't rush

World I would depart

But with such incongruent philia

I'd make the mudge

With a dull crush

With all that is thwart

Only controlling thy sickly bulimia

No, there's no grudge

Everything a lull hush

For it's a worldly cart

A beligerent intimate melancholia 

So close, this bridge

In the end it's a mush

Like a speedy dart

None but a Shakespeare's peripeteia

A meaningless buldge

Another meaningless flush

Intermittent existential restart

From this horrible horrendous hysteria

Making this mudge

Or am I in a rush

But before I fall apart

Let me gather my worldly paraphernalia

In Nostalgia

Happen it did years ago,
Such things one doesn’t forgo,
But remains discreet deep inside,
Like the trace of oxygen in its oxide,
Or like shades of blue in indigo.
Stepping on the grass blade,
Entering into the life’s glades,
The enormous structure,
Stood in its broken shackles,
And random thoughts,
Which one, one merely forgot?
But with their past glory,
And fields not so gory.
There they stood,
With their heads held high,
Indeed afoot,
Were the beautiful blue barns,
Stood in our long lost farms.
Thoughts of random plays,
And dancing our fancy ways,
A home was built of love,
And of muffins and coco-puffs!
Fell the viscous sun,
Onto the empty barrel of rum.
Even the valiant and the dauntless,
Shall fall to the mystifying shadows,
Our random dreamy meadows,
Shall rest in peace under the beaded skies,
And fiery sunrise,
The colors over the walls,
Of a perfect home, otherwise.
O’ matronly tree!
Like the only lonely widow,
Like sad, secluded thing for miles,
Alone you stand,
And alone you have always been!
Stepping into the world of past,
And over the high mast,
All we did all day,
Was to hide, run and play.
In the hearts of the home,
Coughing we entered,
Into the room I called my own.
In tears,
And nostalgia,
With the day’s end,
Was the perfect little ruin,
In the hearts of four people,
And memories of four random wishes.