amongst a cast of lead-supporting roles
though minus script, performance underway
without rehearsal, souls, not knowing goals
from cradle, muddle through, until croquet

mistakes recorded, frozen in forever
creating rippled footstepped lights of hours
to decorate the scars of great endeavour
before the tidal-wave of time devours

while back-stage in the recess of re-runs
imagination’s post-mortems beg change
to find the answers all returns as questions
the thing about this theatre that is strange

Misfortune searches for another like same
because misery loves company;

a challenge enjoys another challenger
but, needs a loser for a victory.

The wealthy really don't care for the rich
but, there are networks to be made;

the blue-blooded wealthy would rather ignore the rich
with the way they're always stealing the shade.

Complainers want something to complain about
someone else, must fit that bill;

the greedy are always hungry
but, they never get their fill.

he was stupid
his Stupidity ...
a word
we ought not to use in poetry

well the end was well for him
he having become a celebrity
only coz of his stupidity.

Some day perhaps
it may well be me,
as master here says
I too know
no fuckin' poetry
only he does perhaps
and
so who will miss me?
he or none
that we'll have to see
Albeit ,
I am sure to be remembered by many
including him
and
of course you too,
and
perhaps only you two

Birds sing in the morning
More than some other times
To welcome a new day
They sing the glorious dawn
Joyful morning music
Some sat atop foliage
With pointed eyes gazing
At distant horizon
As if to see through time
What nebulous future may bring
Yet unperturbed by it