Books Without Index
You gaze in wonder, at books of the library of thoughts,
With trepidation, of likes and loathes, to feed the minds’ draught,
An index, a reference section, never ever found,
Even in the hypnotic silence of the musky surrounds,
Your heart in shambles, realise it is unpaired,
Seeking for a rational index of souls to share,
Your perseverance was destined to no ones’ gain,
Up until you were hit by the drop of a rain,
Unrealised you posture, to the form of a mime,
Amidst the section of poetry’s’, endless rhyme,
With a mind bound, trained to build with bricks,
Imaginative poems was to provide your kicks,
Yet today you stand alone, in the surrounds of books,
Searching for your souls passion, in corners and nooks,
You are lucky, to be enabled, to function with hands,
Although in trance of stupor, by a psychotic mind-band,
As the chaotic lights, gleam, whizz, and pass you by,
You miss the expectant twinkle in the strangers’ eye,
Instead all that glare back, are books at hand,
Lost in your mind, without, an index band;
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