It was "Almost", "Not quite" and "yet to be",
Like A fable only in spirit and not on stone,
To be said in words and never in pen,
To stay among the present and fade for those yet to come.
It was "Almost", "Not quite" and "yet to be",
Like A ladder reaching the attic and never the roof,
To make a way but never a through,
To take you upwards but never to the top.
It was "Almost", "Not quite" and "yet to be",
Like A Story ending with an exclamation rather than a stop,
To make a mark but leave an edge,
To give an ending but never an end.
It was "Almost", "Not quite" and "yet to be",
Like An Incomplete version of you,
To exist but never be fulfilled,
To be a copy of you but never a You.
It was "Almost", "Not quite" and "yet to be"
Like a Love that is yet to be but never meant to be, To be kept but never be felt,
To let you love but never let you live.

You incite me to the point of action
And the only way to get you was not to move
Do you know how much strength it takes every time to withhold this flood of words?
You ask me to write about something else
With my words hung up on the idea of you
But do you know how much strength it takes to make that "something else" not you

You ask me not to move on, but to continue
When it's hard not to be consumed by each step away from you
But do you know the pain of love that has ended but continues to exist
You asked me to make peace with my demons
So I accepted some and went to war with another
But do you know the madness that followed when I found you to be one of them?
You asked me to explore other avenues when I felt lost
So I sat on the fence for a long time and chose one of them
But do you know the betrayal of not finding you there was greater than of wasted time
You asked me to make it work
For love sometimes works in mysterious ways
But do you know love doesn't work my way, and sometimes it doesn't work at all
Can it be the end be in the rains and be endless
For I have heard the bleak monsoon wind can bring up
Pains of past wounds to the surface that were there but not seen
Not to mention the numbness that it inspires
With one drop following the next, doing nothing new yet bringing nothing old
If you go against the rain, it rains you down hard
If you go with it, nonetheless, you get drenched
But would it suffice?
Can it be the end be in tides and can be ebbed
For I have seen waves recede and climb, leaving a hollowness in their wake
A bog that bogs you down more you try to move
Like the unburied memories sinking you in the farther you go
And with it goes away the life who have a curse to exist and not be seen
Leaving only signs behind and some feverishly cringey creatures
But can one cringe enough to perish?
Can it be that the end is poison, and life is the ailment that it cures
For the veins are not in vain, in that they spread
And I find it increasingly hard to explain which path they take

But sure they reach every nook, every corner and every bay
Like a pilgrim knows when they follow the file or break apart
Once God calls upon favours from His much-wanted disciples
But can the follower lead the path he has never known?
Can it be the end in our own mind, but can't be seen
For it takes the sharpest of turns and reaches the farthest of the world
Sometimes it goes to a windy countryside with loosely held flowers on the branches of birch
And then to the ravages of rancour, rotten rancid rage
Sometimes it misinterprets what you say, and sometimes it overinterprets what you don't
And perhaps having the conscience to reject the truth, ever undaunted,
But would madness suffice, my friend? 

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