Such is life. And its only just begun.
I write blue. Sitting next to the golden purple night.
And the droplets of light which used to be stars, sometime ago.
The lamp posts shining a dull bleak white;
they used to be warm, sometime ago.
Cold black wind blows from across the river.
Brushes against my arms. Taking something away with it.
leaves me cold. Paints me black.
It used to be a friend, sometime ago.
Yesterday, even the guitar string broke.
She's given up on me too. Hadn't. Sometime ago.
As the first little rays of the sun open their eyes
I will walk through yesterday night's frost.
In search of that lost part of the past.
I was nothing, sometime ago.
...still am.

God is...

All literature is consolation.

An inevitable sense of impending doom.
As I wait for the seventh wave to strike.

Kill the lights. They re of no use anymore.
Just the firefly, perched on top of my guitar case.
And the rain, gently knocking on my doorstep.
And my life.
Push something white hot into the flesh.
Hold it there.
Now Breathe.
Breathe. For its the least you can do.
Hold it there. Compare.
The reflections. The kohl. The songs. Despair.
For again, like about everything else in my life
I remain clueless.

An inevitable sense of impending doom.
As I wait for the seventh wave to strike.
..For when it does, I will stop writing.