Considering I’m told, that I’m
Just a specimen battling my own badass self
The boldness of a bison, that I feel
Is a residue of my grandfather’s genes.
And still, I look like a bison,
Broad chested, the top half bigger than the bottom,
More flesh than muscle. In this self,
Nagging now, after 41 years of mirror fact,
Which never turns to narcissistic glory,
I see myself watering the hair
Which is getting scantier by the day.
Still the fact that I don’t hit the gym
Tells me, that I don’t care of bronze,
And that I’m comfortable with just a bit of flabby,
As soft as a pillow, which means,
I’m good for a pillow fight, AKA making love.
Still I’m down the slope now, after all I’m 41
And I guess all my glory days are before me now.
Its never easy waking up and realizing
You’re getting closer by the day, to that fateful day.
You’re only configured by your courage
And now there is nothing courageous to do anymore,
Except perhaps have a baby. I’m just hoping
For miracles, that life will throw some game at me,
After all even poems are now
Gasping for breath. What should I dance for?
Or sing to? I wonder. When I’m just an arrangement
Of bones, who wishes for a penis bone too,
To make love more often. I’m just an offering of life
On a street named fate, stumbling more than
I ever expected, learning that we are all,
Expecting more than what is given to us.
None of us have a telescopic eye
And don’t we still enlist for an eternity.
I guess, its all in that hyperopic visual,
Based on our cumulative myopic stances,
The love-founded lust for life.