Baskadia

It’s that cluster, of stars, whom we forgot, to stare, 

Standing tall, on our terraces, with that hope bare, 

Wearing handful, of riches, when we used, to flair, 

Switching dices, and those cheats, as board games, held the chair, 

Of several friends, but that game, never used, to end, 

Without the shouts, and screams, dissolving streams, of joy, in nightmare, 

Do you find, those foolish boys, who used to run, for hour,

Full of madness, being careless, over par, 

Do you find, those childish steps, who regretted, to sit, at a place, 

Who now forgot, to walk, even at zero pace, 

Where are those torn shoes, with that open lace, 

Used to fell down, million times, to stand, and chase, 

The craze, to live, and cheer, with the wounds, and wears, 

Are now offended, by sands, while attending mere, 

Collabs of idiot box, with the stolen chalk box, 

From my teacher’s desk, yet I’m preserving, my year old crocs, 

In the racks, and stacks, where wet pages, used to pack, 

Binding, a book, of bonds, whose now replaced, by Mac, 

I’m sorry, I don’t wanna live, the way, I’m cursed, to live, 

I just wanna flock, on flames, and gift the blames, to give, 

Them, a quote, of advise, to don’t mess, with the hell, we are, 

Since, in every fearful lamb, there’s a very, fierceful scar,