Mr Listless

He led a very dreary life indeed.
A clockwork body which he did not need,
the dreamless sleep and monotonous wake,
and all that clouded his vision opaque.
Free from the dark clutches of the wearied.

He worked with countless other souls harried,
pondering Hell soon after being buried,
a busied crazed world, more than he could take.
They called him a Mr Listless.

And though he was employed, others envied.
His sad white-collared plight should be pitied,
for he’s an urban poor struggling to make
ends meet even as his soul and joints ache.
An infinite obtuse march to proceed.
They called him a Mr Listless.



No Man’s Land

My home is called a no man’s land,
a place where we took our last stand,
nothing grows on this frigid plain,
my skin burns drenched in acid rain,
a return ticket in my hand 

With just one tinned outpost now manned,
and no pernicious battles planned,
countless souls reaped after being slain,
My home is called…

They told me that I was now banned,
that I could not visit my land,
that there are things they won’t explain,
that this was now their grim domain,
I couldn’t deny their command so-
My home is called…


I Went To See The Fields

I went to see the fields again,
a skittish trip down memory lane,
I skipped through crops and grasses green,
golden maize and flowers between-
A place, indeed, as right as rain

The city lights and smoke’s disdain,
we cannot hold hearts in this chain,
As I hold my breath, the winds convene-
I went to see the fields…again

Now I’m back to this urban reign,
to confined four walls of mundane,
etched in my thoughts, it was foreseen,
I’ll go back for the same old scene,
I went to see the fields…again