Nothing is fair in life.
Even hope is an illusion sometimes,
And Midas’s hands had no control.
Everything he touched turned to gold.
And hope is the fuel in the tank,
The broom that gathers the negativity
And cleans the shelves of termite dust.
And I’m just a desperado,
Like a fool who thinks hope gives,
When all it does is dupe you,
Like the city of el-dorado; every woman
Who used to laugh at my naïve jokes,
Who never made it to my sheets.
The ocean has all sorts of swimmers,
Women, of every color, creed and form,
Who in hope stood, like mermaids.
And a sailor makes anything into a woman,
A manatee, a dugong, a whale,
And I was not that, just one woman, who
Made me wait for donkey years,
Whose scales I saw shimmer in the dark,
And yet stood always far from my angler’s hook
Hope, destroyed me, like how too much
Of something is not good, like the Queen song,
Even love, that shines when in hope.
And one day I became hopeless, that day
I begin to see the shine-less creatures, just like me,
Brimming with hope, the same hope
That kept them, swimming in the ocean,
Out of reach of the constant radar, just like me.
I still went on, searching the seven seas,
Fooled by the glow, those shimmering scales have,
That are like shining human skin,
The deceptive glow of overflowing sebum,
Loading the precarious cargo,
Giving you mermaid-sightings.
The mirages that keeps St Elmo on the mast top,
Flaring away. Beauty, is a deficiency disease,
Just like scurvy, it makes the third eye,
Single out the very thing that is absent.
Half woman, half fish, and a purgatory of perfection,
A chimera that is far-fetched and unreal,
The whim decorating the third eye.
Where hope lies, as a casualty
Of scales and skin.