The News

I wonder if the news has reached you,
Of my heart’s current disposition

For it hopes for you to find me, and
Hasn’t given up on that ambition

It trusts what great men ere have said
And hence it believes love alters not,

Love differs not between life and death,
And in what one seeks is seeking it

Thus, it beats for you same as ever,
It cares not about living or dying

And it knows you are a believer, for
You trust too in the power of seeking

So I wonder if the news reached you
Of my heart’s current disposition

For it knows that you will find me then
And lives on, just for that occasion


To Be or Not To Be

To be, or not to be, is the sole question
To choose sleep of death or the wake of life

For it is unknown how death may treat us,
But who’d rather suffer this weary life

The foolish moans about life’s unfairness,
But the wise have trained to suffer in quiet

For the wise is in love with fruit it bears,
And the foolish is, but, restless in wait

The foolish interprets death as a dread,
But the wise know it to be a haven

For the wise craves lasting rest it offers,
And the foolish is oblivious and a craven

Thus, who doesn’t love life is afraid of life,
And who doesn’t love death is afraid of death

Ergo, foolish never live where wise thrives,
And foolish avoids but wise welcomes death

The Epiphany

Why shall I speak of the damage of love?
When it rejuvenates me just as much

In love, people happen to say too much,
But for me, words do not work as my crutch

I reminisce the time I fell in love,
As my remaining days go passing by

I’ve realised the only love I now feel
The unrequited as the end draws nigh

But what was so unusual about you?
An epiphany unveiled at one sunrise:

In darkness ere, I had craved for light
Yet stars were situated in your eyes

It was in the moment I gazed upon
A face fashioned by the hands of nature

There isn’t much left to my regret now,
As lost moments cannot be recaptured


Old friend, I am writing to you again
The infamous tale of squandered love

To have my denial broken by myself
To have accepted past for my behove

To have grown into a man of honor
To have embraced the code of chivalry

To have been reborn as a bird of myth
To have caught lies in nightly reverie

Lost myself in this chronic transition
I regret the love wasted, in-between

Who knew life can just be happy or full
If only the great men ere had foreseen

As humbled as I have become due this
I’m failing to see the point of these rhymes

So old friend, do tell me what is better
Death, endured once or a zillion times?