His life was just an accident
Not God-ordained, nor heaven-sent
Nor, indeed, some too-sly trick
Of Nature in Her wisdom quick
To help compile the computation
And balance-out Her grand equation.
He is today a living crime
A missing ‘plus’; a faulty rhyme
Stumbling forth without a whim
Within a world unmeant for him,
He blunders through the bonds of destiny
Without regard for sense of poetry.
[There are certain narratives to life and history. Sometimes you have your star-crossed lovers, your hubris and nemesis, your ever-recurrent traditions and pre-ordained patterns. Reality itself is quite poetic.
Sometimes a third wheel breaks-up your star-crossed lovers. Sometimes a bystander steps in and negotiates a peaceful resolution to the final battle. Sometimes the traditions fail and sometimes someone completely unforseen bollockses up all of your pre-ordained patterns.
This poem is a salute to those times.]