The flame of time has seldom lit my days
or brought to fore the newness I besought.
The game of life has seldom been a chase;
I trot unsure in skewness and get caught.
The past has preyed on my present always,
avenged whom and revenged how, I know not.
This vast sky space, yet no crescent to praise-
No, I am quenched not, only drenched in thought.
Complaint or blame today eludes this gaze,
achieves nothing, my looking so distraught.
The past, a frame that I now set ablaze-
archives of things aren't undoing the drought.
The fruits are just so rotten- I don't eat.
Bygones are best forgotten, I repeat.
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