Row after row of crisply ordered books with their edges facing outwards
I see the cracked ceiling, dirtied shelves, and dusty cupboards.
The book covers creak, pages crumble.
I stand here at a forty-five-degree angle
in the oldest library because life is a scholarly work
and all I need is a bibliography of life, to fight all the havoc
I am yet to face. I’d be better off if I landed its handbook.
I crave to stay prepared because I don’t want to depend on a mere fluke.
I’d expect the worst in order to stay prepared,
I’d pre-prepare a contingency plan beforehand.
Glass half full or glass half empty, whichever way you may look at it,
all I see is I have to top it up with enough liquid.
Maybe I am structured this way because life’s a cacophony,
and everything goes wrong in monotony.
I keep getting bamboozled by life
it is probably damned strife.
As I stand in this library, I see a book of my life
with creased ends and worn-out pages
I crush it
I crunch it
I scrunch it
like it is bad luck waiting to be slaughtered.
I strangle it to satisfy my bloodlust.
Now, I don’t have a book of my life
but I am the author
and I can always write another book.