Laid on a denim hammock, blinking at the violet skyline,
Sipping cheap whisky on cloudy ice.
The sky is not cloudy, I see palettes of red, orange and yellow.
Sounds of sizzle come sailing through smoke,
These are sounds of patio, cronies and their presence.
Yet it staggers to a bad place, left-right, right-left.
Lord forgive me, who am I to question?
Question the violet skylines, as I pick my son
From Friday football practice, no more a happy place.
The violet skylines look down, wailing.
My white, soil stained Punjabi, as I lower my Mother
And throw dirt into the white shroud, I wonder why?
Right before Maghrib Azaan
Guilt fills to the brim, for times unspent.
The violet skylines look down, hushed.
The unseen Stars shine, when it’s DARK
When night falls, down upon.
I’ll shine too, when the ruined Sun sets.
