A lid opened, with freshly ground air and spirit.
Closing the lid of a year that consumed,
And opening the year of baby skin and wounds.
With a role specific to him,
And a lead played definitely by him.
With a dump of all emotional baggage,
With a dump of all ego, aside.
He moved to the West.
To Keep a track of,
The loss and the finds,
To tame himself,
And the ten rules of his own life.
To load the gun, be ready to pull the trigger.
In a dim drum, where no one knew him,
Where the color of blood was yellow,
And the color of nose, red.
With the urge to fire up the gun,
Get rid of shit people,
Who add no worth,
But just a kit of fake smiles and concerns.
Anyway, he moved to the East also, for some time,
And found a lot of twins, by his side.

For everybody is a,
Lead role played by themselves.
For everybody is,
A dump of baggage and ego.
For everybody is,
Not looking for yellow blood.
Or fake smiles and concerns.
For everybody is,
Not looking for twins.

But someone,
With another set of baby skin and wounds.
Different than their own.
A supporting role,
To curl up their hand from behind their arm,
And lean on to their shoulder,
To feel like an infant taking refuge,
From the invisible ugly ghost he saw.

For everybody is,
Just trying to breathe.
Just trying to weave.
Just trying to sieve through.
Just trying to believe you.
Just trying to find that jar,
With freshly ground air and spirit.

-uk