When I die, I die a boorish bengali,
Who lived his early years in awe.
And in the later belligerent years,
I might see the poles in miserable thaw.
A heated earth, a famished hearth,
I tried to ride this apocalypse to death.
But I feel the wind slipping from my lungs,
As I slowly lose my earthly breath.
A mere speck of a misanthropic man,
Troubled in his mind and by the moon.
The doom and gloom, or the boom,
Of the bomb yet to go off, too often, too soon.
I wish to be rediscovered, alive a ghost,
I fancy a scary face of a grim race.
In the haunting that will surely follow,
Obliterate the Sapiens sans a trace.
If not in life, maybe then in death my virtue,
In a come-back sketch or more.
The rare rituals of squiggles of the mind,
Of mine will remain as strange as before.
This river of life, now cuts me like a knife,
The leftovers of the flesh drift in pain.
In a distant time, in one favorable clime,
I'll be back with my promise again.
Omnibus-omnia-eta.vercel.app
