Musings on a time gone past

The wind comes and sings the songs
that the carefree leaves and the random stars hum.
The orange mundanity that washes the streets,
clears the way for memories to come.
There are dreams some.
Paniful screams some.
Two laughs, three wasted jokes and a giggle -
and I have lived my life out in a bottle of rum.

The eagles fly unbounded on a sky left alone by walls.
The sparrows die where they stand.
The eagles fly unbounded on a sky left alone by walls,
and the silence mourns as the darkness fails to understand.
Some colours are jaded.
Some colours are bland.
You cannot make a life out of pieces of broken mirror -
for real people in reality, can never expand.

Veins criss-cross under the harem of the violet skin,
violet is the colour of the clouds.
Spread aside the days we cast asunder the stars
dancing joys, singing out aloud.
Those memories make me proud.
Those memories make me doubt.
For beyond the romance of time's thrifty shadows,
lies only the anonymity of another gypsy crowd.

15th feb, 05
11:41 PM

The little boy of china clay

The little boy of china clay,
The little boy of china clay.

Up where the mountains stay,
the little boy of china clay.

The night, stars and bright.
A gilded axe, the frightened bird's flight.

Out of sight...
out of sight.

The little boy, out all night.

There, in the corner
of the misty music of silent preludes.

There, the albatross hangs dead
and among all other things said,
there lives..

The little boy of china clay
and all the little games he used to play.

4th Apr, 05
2:25 AM

Lament of a Dreamer

Is there such a thing as a dreamer?
A romantic, a quaint little relic,
left alone by the world, a spirited hermit?
Without cares for the bread
and without worries of the tea.
Who lives on a southern mountain,
in a little cottage and writes poems sitting under a tree.

Is there such a thing as a dreamer?
One who is not ridiculed nor mocked,
who lives without a care for time or its clocks?
Without frailties and temptations,
floating in a peace that’s all his own.
Who stands on the borders of night
and casts his light on a weathered stone.

I searched and I sought.
I cried and I fought.
For under these skies blue,
there exist men many few –
who need dreams to survive and to create,
who want to learn of things that don’t breed hate.
There exist indeed,
men as such very few.

And thus is the crying lament,
of a vagabond who’s tiring his shoes.
For the roads are many,
but his pen has gone askew.