gunpoint

In this spherical globe of black grasses,
The world seems alright & cheering white;
Such that no color could have stayed long,
Except the eternal grey & white of experience.
The chemical sun gels & shines well in style,
Bearing the blame of cutting short life-
And there is always respect for death or form
Even if they come too early or too late.


In an era of new born artistes, freedom is crime.
No crop is due after harvest & your hair too.
A breathe or a shampoo never kills you to hell,
But brings too many life-forms for you to suffocate,
So that one sew their own choices of the pride.
Sometimes when the head or the crust is all barren,
A personality is complete like one full moon,
Like all alone in the black sky when all are stars.