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Freedom on tenterhooks

The winds howled like the midnight street dogs
While the moist air caressed my cheeks,
 It cooled my brow, brought me back to the then.

 Lying on the stony pillow, I was,
My balcony wide open, lending my privacy to anyone passing by,
 Did I at the least care, ironically not.

 Back from a long lost reality, I was,
The time when I had found innocence in every child’s smile,
Truth in every friend’s word,

A blend of passion and talent in every artist’s hand,
Bountiful faith in every theist’s eyes,
There were green, brown and the transparent,

 Boundless and not possessed they were,
The unclaimed lands of a generous king.
 They replenished and were so.

 It loomed on me, they barely exist,
And in the turbulent present,
They dissolved like snow under sun,

The chill lasting longer in memory.
Rather there is, brimming coffers behind the artist’s success,
Greed and uncouth desire in many theists’ eyes,

The ghosts of innocence in the child’s unmet smile,
The green sawed down, the brown bloodied,
 The transparent warred upon, the little left after exhaustion.

 Times have changed, I wondered, 
Like men’s organ beneath their bosom.
The enigma tethers mankind,

 With the longest rope of freedom,
And crucial it is to know,
That rope is never unbound and in tenterhooks,

 Time it is to remember,
 When the rope breaks free, freedom is veiled,
And pleasure turns a hazy dream.

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To write is to dwell

FEBRUARY 15th, 2012





















What writing means to me...

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I'm too shallow to write a verse

I'm too shallow to write a verse To wrap around the twists and turns To dwell unto my own, I do Living somebody else's life or my own? Shrouded under piles of thought, I scribble, thinking only of the applause.
I'm too shallow to write a verse or two To make ends meet, I'm too cuckoo. I'm not the classic, scratching blue wooing 'em, tearing 'em apart  with every word.
I'm not the one who rhymes nor the one with notes for those lyrics. I'm the one who scribbles blotching blue on all my troubles, roiling over moments back and forth, trying to string those stray words, into at least a doggerel. See, I don't make sense.  I told you, I'm too shallow to pen that sonnet, that ballad, that haiku, that refrain, that ode.
I'm forcing it out all that gibberish snowballed  unto mine, to chime and rhyme  but nevertheless I realise in time, I'm to shallow to be read over cheese and wine.