Jaded December

A morning post, and I crave to scrawl;

with these jaded thoughts, I long to yodel it all.

My versing clouts citing molds

Owing to the bouts of subjection;

as my aesculapian tomes and assays,

look to butcher me for another duration.

For another juncture, I suffocate;

over some reasons I try to speculate.

As of what by now I might have been

had not divulged in trey spells preceding.

Another December folds in for another turnaround

I try to frame another writ as I sit around;

With these dearth of initiatives to write down

or maybe its hard for a jaded mind to bend around.

Perhaps a bottle of beer could have shaped up my habitat

or a glass of rum to swing a magic wand like it did three years back.

But with these folks so near, its formidable to run over wine

so I lay jaded in the city with grumpy musings of mine.

No doubt is different this bengal city,

buzzing with people and their ideas so artistry.

The culture of this place bore literary poets of the century;

and they said it isn't a poem unless you have a wild fantasy.

The city chirps and sings way too much,

Wearisome to feel for breeze whisper here as such.

So is hard the psithurism needed to sing the right verse.

Once in hamlets for days my hallowed rhymers plopped down,

epitomizing how paddy fields with cloudy winds swung around.

And here I hanker to scribble same, sitting in this sardined crosstown.

Although I walk through the city lanes as a stranger,

a walk through the crowdy turns and corners;

the vicinity always bothers me so not unreal,

makes me make a wish to walk so invisible.

The lambent lights tell there's a festival around the square,

always too much to clock here.

They spot me, try to find out reasons for my stare,

I beam at them, mean no tear.

The winters aren't that raw, nor are the summers that parch,

although am an alien around I am aware of their cultures.

It pours here a lot, maybe that's the reason

why people here find comfort on each others shoulders.

Be it the green esplanades, or the creek sides or the rivers,

always find lovebirds lightning up some ashes till they flounder.

As some glances of some pretty silhouettes,

some smiling, some at you, some for other rosettes;

some swivels of their shades beneath the dark thick curls

again remind me of the past someone special; 

And I sulk into another year wondering whats vain . 

as I bend to scribble, I discern I am jaded again.

But neither do the rightful days reflect ideas worthy to author, 

nor do you ever recall the nights you had a good slumber. 

As I dig to pen down the finishing lines,

I realize again the lack of fantasy of rimes.