More hot smog.

Waiting for euphoria

with his throat still swelled

and his eye’s crusted with tears

to scared to escape

waiting for the world

to deliver itself

on the silver plate

only to refuse

and say, “I’m full”

nothing is free

there is always a bill

or a promise to keep

and he is to weak

he seeps in his seclusion

creating his own world

of paranoid delusion

fusing it with new found


anything is only as good

as what is given to thee

truth can be found

at the bottom of a cup

of poppies seed tea

the sweet smell of suffering

with the hard road of regret

set it all on fire

and start again

make a new bed

to lay the head

of heart ache

take the better part of a week

and seep remedies slow

follow in fluid direction

and make your moves flow

saying goodbye

always takes practice

but its a dish best served


fumigate the forgeries

till your barracks

are gray with a plume of smoke

and its hard to breath

become only what you believe

create anything you conceive

and carve the lime stone

out of reality

only to stop

till it’s white hot


~ by Aumbeche Rishi on February 12, 2007.

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