Frustrated,
festooned with shards of broken dreams
He emerged out of a
mad and moonlit ocean, he was
Soaking in
spit and a leeching fatigue, somehow
feagued and fostered by the
same remorse
The
shooting stars shot glances of pity, poised
in military formations against every undead
soldier of fortune -
(Like him) Fed on
rations of fear and fucked
till the numbing depths of their torture were
Subsided by the
eroding heights of his pain
With the
featherbedded twisting under freckled skies
He
swallowed a fistful of the feckless night and
Fought with
Friday morning all through the weekend
Fake or otherwise, he felt the need to falter
To
Fess up to what was false and feeble and bow
Fore’ what was the fateful for only the free -
Are the ones who
fuse following with
Forgetting.