Chapter 4

Move On

A week has gone by; I have learned to fly on,

The mark of the coffee cup on the table has yet to dry,

And I feel happy, that for this week I haven’t cried,

Good times started rolling, and it’s time to march on.

Past was past how surreal and bizarre it may appear,

Yet for the time I spent, those was the golden moments,

Frozen by the history of these so called mysteries,

I call it the hysteria of the your utopic delusions.

I am now entering the phase where I’d have to be left alone,

Alone and free from you, and all sorts of yours memories,

I’d like to erase all kind of your inconceivable memories,

Burned the cigarette just like those memories of yours.

And at the end, I realised, you were not the only one,

But still my heart weeps for you, for the so long journey,

The journey of that demystified long lost files,

Where I learnt to raise my toast and legalise those long lost files.

Utopic Illusions of a Baby

Rain drops scatter my imaginations around the blades of the windmill,

They slowly churn away the wind as they sway away under their flawless motion,

The drops trickle down the blades as a magical potion,

These small prisms spread themselves throughout the greens as a free will.

Blends under the shadow of the trees,

Those finest dried leaves those are free,

Crushed under the finest whispers of laughter,

They find themselves deep beneath the graves of thee dead.

Undone by his deeds, found a way to freedom,

Broke those chains to move him away from the boredom,

Wandered to new horizons in search for new sensations

He had a motive to fulfill his life's frustrations

Sleep deprived, rumbling, rustling walking alone in the streets,

Was a man, with no desire, desire for success,

Under the ever moving sky was his never moving head down,

Just to find those crushed leaves bringing them back to the ground.

Anonymously carried himself through the hustle of the towns

Realized beneath the shade of the happiness there were many convincing frowns

Simplified his emotions to meet the needs of the protest,

Walking down those materialistic streets was just like a test

Surreal yet it may seem, deemed as crazy by the rest,

His demeanor was as hard as a rock,

For the miles forged under his feet he had to bear many shocks

Closure, without the joy or pain, he painted his road to his identity

The final destiny, the final moment, magical

Yet it may seem, was his final frontier, yet so simple

Utopia, his elixir of life, which he kept searching for,

Happiness and sorrow kept burdening him all the way along,

Yet he found a way to move on and on and on.......