Origin.

Whiskers furrow through 

Faulty poems

Singing like songs

One two three

And tap dancing like neon lights

Stuck against strings of tangential consequence.

I am a hazy print on 

Water soaked newspapers.

I am a flaw,

A finite lilac of open flames.

I am eternity,

Innovation dressed like pictures on 

Colourful flower beds.

I am a tomorrow

And yet a bustling Tuesday morning

Lining up like kids 

Towards a lost play day.

I am really old

And still a hot blooded 

Favourite of fake Gods

Sitting somewhere on distant throne.

Who am I,

I ask the glass

And the parchment paper stained with ink

I don't speak,

I howl

Like night owls perched on a broken twig.

I am all

And yet so less

Like death on a decorated platter

Waiting to consume the fire and the ice cold cubes in the vodka 

Labelled "life".