Out from the sullen Delhi time,
A surprise in Bhopal was my plan,
Which, as for usual us, sold in for dime.
The incogitable timings were marked,
The expensive tickets were booked,
The Kingdom of stay was sorted.
As a failure, I aim for a bull’s eye
And always end with a burning sigh.
As a coward, I aim for perfect shores
And always end with waves of Imperfect memoirs.
So much to say, so much to share,
So much to do, so much to care,
But with restraining chains,
Of times, of places, of people and more,
So li’l did we say, so li’l did we share,
So li’l could I do and couldn’t even li’l care.
A mundane coffee date and a starving dinner to end,
Is all that Imperfect that I sound and pretend,
Is what I cherish and on which I depend.
These Imperfect times and incomplete stumbling meets,
These Imperfect memoirs and complete you and me.