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Poem

The past is not deprived of its events
resting in the bosom of bygone valley,
carved in rigid love craftily decent
like the gulp graciously landing at sea port of belly.
 
While the future eludes not the belle
with whom it has had memoir in hallucination
of seducing hands, tender in caressing its belly
for commensurate rewards in anticipation.
 
Meanwhile, I’m like a hand of time
progressively sitting in the middle
of the counted and uncounted mines.
Maverick confronted with seasoned dribble.
 
When will I stop my heels from accelerating in cycle?
The weary marathon is recycled
such that it leaves considerable intervals yet to be circled,
even though I always thread forward in retrogressive circle.
 
No counting is of the old
till I grow old in the cold.
Shrouded in a coat as I repeatedly quote
‘Who Am I?’

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