Born In To These Carefully Mad Wars

There's a war within, a mad war, a bad one. Road on which he's travelling is full of conflicts. He's got so many battle scars. His mind is full of bittersweet memories of the time that’s gone. He sings and dances, he cries and writhes in pain. He makes mistakes, commits blunders. He sprints in marathon and drops down soon only to get up and think hard.

“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.” 
― T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

Some wildest of all dreams he's had

on a hilltop when it pours he'll parade

walking barefoot alone in midnight and gaze

to where he's running, to what he's gunning ?

which seed is inside that's growing ?

can he figure out the tale ?

in the end, when lights go out

will he have a story to tell ?

Sun's a thief

moon's a killer

he's ever engaged

with freedom's cage

under sunshine

he's in battle

in moonlight

he wages a war

with the world

he was born in

roads he roamed in

people he loves 
souls he adores

life was suppose to be easy

it's what he saw in movies

stories he's read were crazy

songs he liked rock-metal-heavy

and now everything's in real-time

failure sometime feels like crime

now he's running in his primes

tagging with good ones and rhymes

there's no point

fearing and dreading

he's going out to kill

all fuss and confusing

draining the sun's shine out

dissolving silvery of moon

and climbing that hilltop

dreaming of that roof top

marching in rain to parade

gazing in mid of night

shedding all charade

one day he will sit

down to tell the tale.