The Rehearsal

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For many a filthy centuries I sobbed beneath the moon, 

For many a happy festivals I saddled away in gloom, 

For longing days of endeavour I traveled in my yard, 

For countless nights of feinging flights I fell, and fell down hard.

The freedom of my Martyrdom, thus can be ever sung, 

When the swinging of those dead resounds the chapter hung, 

And the drizzle of Golden virtue drops upon thy land, 

While cursed faith of red blood stains my crystal sand. 

In the past of reinging dark I fumble on my way, 

In the realm of harping larks I mumble what I must say,

By the mud of cleansing sages I must wither down my curse, 

As the final act of men I did and did rehearse. 

The Arrival

Autumn breaks,

And I am waiting, at the station,

Perched by a bench,

Beneath the sign boards, and neon lights,

Eyes on the gentle curve,

Of the rails, 

breathless.

It’s been ten years now,

Since I wrote this words,

And you are yet to come!

Cluster.

Most well written poems,

Don’t mean anything,

They are but broken words,

Stitched together,

To mirror perfection.