Im Good
Our the knives not sharpened since long,
Or they have missed my Achilles,
May be my heart have pumped some valor,
Have I become a saint?
Since I’m aloof, and with my two angels,
Clammy death of malice mouths have left,
The brooding peace and civilizing influence in me then.
But this growing euphoria seems like a pill
Which cures but destroys the prospects of age,
A sort of an intoxication, No knowing and then,
Unexpected petty happiness,
But there is no drink,
Just this life on a brink,
In a hiatus and a chase.
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