Refuse to run over. Veins, coated
With steel, the blood doesn't ooze,
And the brain doesn't explode.
The writer of my fate somehow
Forgets to forge me a tragic end,
His writer's block must be serious,
Maybe I should lend him my technique.
There's so much at stake here,
The share in my ancestral property
My siblings might want,
The insurance companies, wanting
To declare that I'm a fraud.
The Taaviz of a Tantrik going unsold
Because my ghost can't make any
Noise in the night and
My wife, not getting a chance to
Play her ultimate victim card.
More importantly, the crows with
A fetish for funeral-food -
Returning to the virtue of stealing
Rotis from the backyards, after
Being deprived of the delicacies
At the wake of my demise.
This liveliness keeps punching
Holes in my shroud and I manage to
Keep stitching it back with
Self-deprecating nylon jokes.
And it's bloody adamant, this life,
Infects with reason and a bit of
Purpose and lots of cowardice
To keep my breathing intact.
But living seems to be the biggest
Addiction we suffer as a species it seems.
And you're wrong if you think this
Rant is just about dying.
Holes in my shroud and I manage to
Keep stitching it back with
Self-deprecating nylon jokes.
And it's bloody adamant, this life,
Infects with reason and a bit of
Purpose and lots of cowardice
To keep my breathing intact.
But living seems to be the biggest
Addiction we suffer as a species it seems.
And you're wrong if you think this
Rant is just about dying.
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