GENTLEMAN OF PANACHE

If I were to meet my gods this day, If I were to face the cruel of gods this day; As the wick of the lamp of my life burns closer inch by inch to its end, Before my blood gets cold, I bind the grace of all gods, That I may whistle the last song in my heart, In sight of gods and men, As stars look down in witness, That the dead shall dance here tonight. May the soft hearts of men weep for me when I depart, May they sing the songs of my sacrifices; the songs of heroes. My heart shelters the story that is me, And this day, I shall paint the last portrait of my heart, For the great lands to admire. During the museum of my years, My eyes have been poisoned, I have seen the innocent suffer, My tongue has been laced, And spoken not against the dirt of men, My nails have been trimmed short, And my fingers cannot paw upon the walls and scale the heights of greatness. If the moon of my life shone no more, Let these words be the nectar of the gods and as libation I pour

Within these confines that whisper of impregnable quest to quench the thirst of an ‘innocent monster’, Illuminated by the flickering light of years past, Resting upon the comfort of ‘wished upon destiny’, Sleepless thoughts of the ‘should have had’ dreams nudge the passion of fingers long lost in the warmth of broth that is life, And woo them they do! I know less why the birth of a new day finds my eyelids still pegged, The breeze of the ghostly dawn guard against the dreams of my pillow. Solitude be the bride I walk down the aisle, Every tick of the clock is a whack that coils itself round my haunted heart, I detest from wailing to save face from my proud self. Seeds of thoughts planted in yester days force their debut to the tiny surface of my mind-field, Yet am overwhelmed to tend to my thought-lings. Over and over, have pounded clay to mould my pot of wishes, But this new day, the clay for my pot of wishes does not smoothen to the touch of the potter. Like a thre