Catastrophe in its zenith wages across the existential storm,
One that enrages the callous whispers of the ongoing norm.
I dance with the tides and ride over the waves that propel the game,
Through silent footsteps, in the beckoning stride, I engrave my name...

Clasping on the tales of a thousand lives, 
I brew a stellar through the syllables that march through thin air,
Over the moon and dripping in cups of hot coffee, 
I embrace the poetic notion of mortality through my acoustic flair.

I hide in the land of my imaginative canvas to never be found,
To enclothe myself in a blanket of solace, where no one knows my familiar sound.
To be lost in a sight that never leaves me astrayed,
To be loved like I was never betrayed.
I have lived a thousand lives, each one reckoning its quintessential stance,
I have watered myself in poems I don't show anyone, 
Ones that died at the Dead Poets’ Lake, where the dualities of existence dance. 

Wandering through the woods, I often find myself at the crossroads of creativity,
To weep at the existential catastrophe or to drip the pain into the depths of poetry. 
Dancing with the tides of uncertainty, I ride over the waves of change that people the game,
Through the precipice of my words, I beckon the reckoning stride, one where,
Every syllable engraves my name,
One where nothing stays the same
One where nothing stays the same…

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