A Ring(Poem)

Long ago
there was a ring
that changed many hands.

Rumors came in
that the ring healed
the hearts of men and women
who puts it on index finger.

Then the fights came in
all died except one.

That single man on the earth
wore it
and healed his heart in all happiness.

—Drunken Monk.


Born out of a den.
named as ken.
lived as subterranean.
Watched shenanigans.
scraped the fen
of the pain.
could not handle circadian.
missed the train again.
the drop could not meet the ocean.
tried in vain.
would you care to explain?
this alien,
could not complain.
the curtains
fell again.
skipped yin and yang,
in disdain
with a bloodstain.
you might try again
for a beautiful Venn,
so make sure you are certain.

—Drunken Monk.


Death is
the crescendo and the zenith
of life’s wave.
The crest and the final spring
of soul’s journey into the
stars and the stones.
No, it’s not a pale poem
or a coldly thing
but a redolent perfume
perfected by the
the flowering of finished fates.
The captain did not
leave for a final dignity or
damnation to stay with phantoms
but just took a tiny repose
in the synchronous unity,
to again give ear to
the primordial songs of silence
and the melodies of the multitude.
it’s not martyrdom
not a flight into oblivion
just a
post carted by the continental
and the maritime air masses
to the infinite.
A small pause in the
comet’s cruise.

—It’s not the end, for sure.