As you’ve burnt it out with your darkness.
And shattered down the dreams.
With your self inflicted purgatory schemes,
And that bottle of kerosene.
I fret through it this time,
Lying low – totally lost and incomplete.
As I fumble through the puzzles,
To find that final piece.
A rusted knife overhead,
Hovering into the outer space.
But everyone has their stardust,
Which no perception can erase.
I still hate that kerosene bottle,
That you so keenly grip.
With my petty world as your fireplace,
And the memories alight like the wood chips-
Yielding fire in my face.
The borrowed light that rains,
Is like my personal deposit
For my little share of that stardust.
To keep the glitter brightly lit.
Yet, filled with inflammable kerosene
That bottle comes in the way.
Giving way to your oxidized dreams,
Breaking me down every time I pray.
Now the kerosene oozes out,
As now that I’ve broken that glass,
I could easily grab my world,
Give you a contemptuous regard.
But I’m not the type that walks away,
Without a second glance,
I’d keep the secrets that belong to me,
And surrender the rest to chance.