3 February 2018

They say old is gold,

Only because that’s what

They once owned.

But what about the

Bastards, bold

And ones whose origins rot.

The eternal memory moaned

Over my once bare heart, duh!

My antennae doesn’t catch

The sense made in

Gold plating the old, just to

Throw it on a historical doom.

The history won’t match

Your expectation, be it a virtue or a sin,

It’ll come back like migrated birds do,

You see, in an unknown groom.

That was the last time

I saw myself walk on

The queer tracks

Of old fort.