This world, O friend!
has too many Gods,
too few godmen,
and the rest of us,
do we even matter?
Unlike humans, thoughts are hard to kill.
This world, O friend!
has too many Gods,
too few godmen,
and the rest of us,
do we even matter?
What is wrong with you ? with me?
when I saw you at first
I thought you are a song
easy to grasp & remember
but you weren’t, I know
for every time I crammed,
wrote you on my walls
you faded, into a cacophony
As others found harmony
I cried and crammed
I mad searched you
every page every line
But your words were foreign
of people long gone, dead
They left you, a cipher
a proof that dead can kill
I was a God of my world
so perfect, so aloof
Then I found you
like a crack on a glass statue
I saw you grow, slowly
as I shattered.
Here I am, a helpless god
gathering up my pieces
singing you and asking myself
What is wrong with me? with you?