In life, the prince chases the princess
Or the girl next door or a cinder-fingered Ella.
Who promised a fairytale in return.
And the princess – who’s always beautiful
Jumps on the Prince’s car – a flashy one at most times,
And they drive off to the sunset, like Bonnie and Clyde,
While a string of soup and sardine tins
Makes a clanging noise on the rear buffer.
A racket that soon become a ruckus.
And love making, is just a brimmed-pact that tells us,
That you get to make noises with your wife
Like those bandicoots make in the ceiling.
You and her, are just silhouettes in dimmed light
Amorphous in the dark, familiarities when the lights are on,
And only a gossamer nothingness in slumber.
And always, a multi-faceted study on how many angles,
You would have to try out, to make the silhouettes disappear
And the amorphous, double its original size.
At the end, your center of gravity, turns to
A weightlessness, spanning hummingbirds to eagles.
Until you fall down, like an albatross to the ocean
With a glint of fire blazing on the edge of the wing,
Almost like Icarus lit by wrath of the sun, diving down to water,
And in that moment you are extinguished,
You become someone’s older Brueghel