Bits and pieces of me lie scattered on the ground,

A part of me undiscovered, a part of me not found,

Reminders of who I am and memories of who I was,

The crusader of a lost cause,

A part of me still remains unfinished,

A part of me diminished,

Like a plain piece of parchment paper, thirsty for a drop of ink,

Like a philosopher looking for the missing link,

I have yet to discover my true identity,

Hidden beneath many masks,

I have yet to gain certainty,

Of my real tasks,

In my world there are no limits,

No barriers, no edges,

For one who is governed by limits,

Is incapable of urges,

Urges to achieve and urges to survive,

Incapable of life, unable to revive,

The free wandering self he was once,

The all conquering king he was once.

The sun rises from behind the mountain tops,

Not a soul stirs, wrapped in the coils of sleep,

And at a distance passes a young boy,

With his flock of sheep,

Taking them to the meadows,

Where the grass is green,

Taking them to the meadows,

Where life is so serene,

Walking across the bridge, walking across the river,

Walking to the meadows, where the grasses quiver,

No he doesn’t walk alone, alone with his sheep,

He has his companions in the wind, the land, the trees,

He tethers the sheep with a rope,

He tethers them to the ground,

And gets lost in his dreams,

In his sleep so sound,

The sun sets as the wind blows over the mountain tops,

Rocking the grass to sleep,

And in the distance returns the boy with his flock of sheep.

For ages a story has been told,

Of a spirit that stood bold,

A tempest had gathered in the sky,

The clouds let out a bellow-a deafening war cry,

The winds blew, thrashing,

Thunder came forth, flashing,

Amidst the destruction and debris,

Lay a lone wolf trapped under a tree,

In agony the poor wolf cried,

In agony the poor wolf tried,

 The more he tried, the more it hurt,

Pain ran through his body in jolts and spurts,

The wolf summoned up all his might,

He wouldn’t let go without a fight,

It was a long time before the storm receded,

But his will stood undefeated,

A day came when he almost gave up,

But he believed and picked himself up,

Tough he had been crushed by pain,

He vowed to rise up once again,

For ages a story has been told,

Of a spirit, oh! So bold.

Destiny



Destiny has thrown at me,

From time immemorial, to eternity,

Scented candles and brickbats,

A sack full of good and a heap full of bad,

Twists and turns have defined the way,

Dimly lit roads and dusty days,

Scenes of destruction and rusty haze,

Weeks of sorrow in this endless maze,

Desolate paths and empty roads,

Have given me seasons of empty woes,

All I want to ask, my friend,

Have I nothing left to defend?

I never knew how hard it is to be,

Someone you never wanted be,

I want to escape these shackles,

And break free,

Choose my own path,

My own destiny.

The flower's story

In the wide fields of grass,

Where only grass grew as far vision would last,

Stood proudly in the light winds of spring,

A flower, glistening,

It had traveled a long way,

As a seed in a bale of hay,

Dropped by a solitary traveler,

Who, had forgotten to travel lighter,

The flower stood emitting his fragrance,

A light waft, like vanilla essence,

For miles and miles there was no other,

None to compete, none to smother

In his glorious fragrance,

A light waft, like vanilla essence

One sunny day, in the middle of summer,

As the wind blew and let out a murmur,

The flower looked around to see,

How far his kingdom stretched in glee,

Only to come upon a young sapling,

Coming out of the earth, grappling,

“Hello!” said the young one,

Cheerfully and full of fun,

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

With a tone so happy and gay,

And as the last words had been spoken,

The young bud began to open,

The poor old flower stood gaping,

Not being able to perceive what was happening,

Bright colors of yellow and green,

And a smell so serene

But still the flower stood frowning,

As his pride was drowning,

Now he wasn’t alone to stand,

Now he had to share his rightful land,

Suppressed by the young flower’s innocent glory,

Thoughts and plots he conjured, so gory,

He schemed to not stop until the young one was finished,

The flower turned to a monster, bloodthirsty and famished,

The monster’s conscience, hidden inside,

Silenced the monster, oh yes, it defied,

Seeing what it had become,

With sadness was the flower overcome,

He flooded with emotions and with guilt,

Depressed, he began to wilt,

Seeing his only companion weep,

The young flower decided to keep,

His old friend from giving up,

To help him perceive his cup,

Half full and not half empty,

And teach him to live in plenty.

it's been a 100 miles since i left home,

leaving the streets i used to roam,

i venture into this great unknown,

knowing that I'm not alone,

i walk thru a city of bright black lights,

reminiscing of the day i took my first flight,

i have come a long way since i departed,

a 100 miles away from where all this started,

in times of great hardness and of fear,

and all the times i wished you were here,

thru all the pain that we endured,

thru all the sickness suffered and cured,

you taught me the most rudimentary virtue in life,

whether it be sickness or strife,

that when time does its calling only a few step forward,

those left behind are the greatest cowards,

its been a 100 miles since i left home,

and somehow i know,

that wherever i go,

you'll be the one to guide me back home.

Fight

Through the darkness cometh a ray of light,

Putting the willing up to the fight,

Like a stone’s etching on a boulder,

Time will surely make it fainter,

Through the treacherous field of battle,

Blood drenches the green grass where once roamed cattle,

Why is there bloodshed and why is there killing,

As death approaches those who are willing,

Through icy seas and deafening thunder,

Warriors charter the unknown yonder,

Fighting till their last breath is drawn,

In attempt to make their loved ones feel safe and less forlorn.