Then there's this day
when you find more hair
in your comb, and the pillow
that you lay back on
dreaming the remains of life.
Standing on the inception
of untimely losing process
that ends till
there's nothing to lose,
You feel sick of your nails,
your shadow, the touch
of your own skin and
the stuff of your clothes.
You want no next generation,
trapped into the viciousness
of blood, emotions, tears
or even smiles, especially
the wrinkles you foresee,
initiated over by your forehead
when you're too young to be old.
Will there be a day too,
when you finally lose
the ability to over think
or think at all,
and the grudged memories
ultimately fade, instead of
hiding under the years
of my age or pictures of time.
If so happens or not,
you long for the day
when you're no weak enough
to deal with the
randomity of being a human.
