Whatever

It seems that November has finally reached India

Chilly tonight in the vacant moonlight

It is home that I see in my faint memory

Of the tiger to be which is all that I dream

Anymore for the haziness here doesn’t phase me

‘Cuz nothing’s amazing except when it’s wavy

And all that I am is now lazy with smog

But I’m grinding through time like an old, rusty cog

So in helping them grow like a gardener of minds

Cultivating the youth that is mine in decline

Far behind is it gone and where once it stood thus

Is pollution and poison and ash clouds of dust

Just gun shots exploding in satellite skies

Contact languages have become my contact highs

I can still take a sip of the foamy fizz phony

But with every drop I feel more like bologna

On some kind of journey, a quest to be best

To be better than beast and be least of all blessed