To write

Write, write, write, we must

Else, who will tell the tale?

A possession it is, a muse divine,

Blessing blind poets with nocturnal visits

And to us poetasters,

Only a passing grace.

Say If

When all the angst

Of teenage rage is at rest,

And very adult ‘affairs’ through

Perhaps a worldly ‘sanity’ will follow:

The ones they call domesticity

And death.

A few twists, here and there,

Say: If the ugly cityscape

Had offered less scenic views;

Or, if we hadn’t held sacred beliefs

In myths like god and such;

If breathless desperation

Was not called lustful names

Like love; then

Perhaps, a conventional choice and

‘A lifetime of happiness’,

Would be embedded

In the twisted lines of our fates too,

Now diverging

Like railway tracks trailing away

Different journeys.