On the Edge of Evening

 All the happy flowers of the day,

Set afresh to bloom on misty morn.
And I as a set aside enjoy the waning evening.

For woe on woe to speak,
But that will simply aside him in silence.

Let me be a failure,
As failure as a Bukowski,
And all ugly
As he with his face!
Or a Beethoven,
As thrashed and beaten by his father.
And as him, lost in love.
Unlike those flowers at the morn
Let me sleep and rest
With my young Chatterton,
Near and close to his peaceful grave.

Across all eyes
Of these tossing sea of people
Sometimes I see nothing,
Or rather nothing for me to see.
Am I not selfish as they?

Ah! This passing crowd.
Power is necessary to be someone.
Yet sometimes, I'm happy to be with
And talk to that street hawker
Sitting somewhere
On the footpaths near by.
All they could hear is,
The groan of their gut
And that thump in the chest.
It's nothing to romanticise about,
Neither its poetic.

Look at yourself!
Who will stand for you?
What benign prodigy you are?

This that I write
Is all, that I found,
All that I found my heart to be desiring :

A place with people to call 'home'.

A 'someone' to share with, the feeling of being understood.