Voluntary retirement.

I wander on the brink of extinction,
She flails on my heels.
Giving me solitary company on a full-moon night.
A cool windy contour on a gritty beach,
Frothy foam smashing on buxom boulders.
'n I think my poems are all 'fvckt'.

The Big Bang.

What is it that haunts us always?
Translucent imagery on bespeckled walls.
Shining hearts etched on fading linen,
And a chain that binds us to ancestry?
A parrot that speaks of a plunder, two voyages,
And three or so wenches,
That sail on the high seas.
An omnipotent forecast of a horrible storm,
Coupled with a terrible sense of foreboding.
Photogenic snaps of the city sky line,
Caught on gleaming cell phone cameras.
They perturb us, gnaw at our innermost desires,
An unending wish to be infamous.

Yet we stay as we were,
Chained to where it all started, the womb.

Sitt.

I never meant to say all that you presumed I would say, yet you said, that I said, all that you conceived I did say. It was a terrible misunderstanding, an innate pathological lie, a truly grave loss, a deprivation of the senses.
If you had not, but trusted me blindly, would you not have confided in me, my pretty? Had I, never a reason to complain for all that was wronged unto me? Yet I did not, was that the dishevelled mistake?
Life is a gift, they say, for we must cherish everything we do, savour every taste, every smell, each and every sip of bland water that is given unto us must be acknowledged with sincere appreciation.
For I say, never take things for granted. Else, they shall warp and metamorphose and bite back at you. You shall be smouldered by pirate coins and frozen blood, and then shall be made to scoop out a key which would unlock you from your present state of frustrated solitary existence, out of your very own eyeball.
It is a pity, but things must be put to the test and matters must be put to rest. Hatchets must be buried, yet vengeance must not be hurried.
Life goes on and always will, for that's what people say.