Parcel 38 Grave No 509
Listen to poem:
Rufescent clouds descend on the Victorian horizon as the sky dies
Beneath them bone chilling winds roar as salvos,
I feel like an acceptor who adheres to the doctrine of disguise
While looking through the prism of a Sunset Tourmaline.
It is not what I want but what I prize.
As a harbinger I walk through the walls of smashed mirrors
And build realities of destiny and pain
To forge the fabric of this world in a single ripple
Where an image of her is an apotheosis of authenticity,
The essence of love is in the realm of gods,
And where, I am finally a happy man.
Only through my poetic cathexis I have not failed to connect
With the dynamics of life, - but not with a 3 rd party
Without being hit on my head as if the voice asked;
Are you there Moriarty?
Well, I am here in the misty dominion under the hat
Alienated from “the superficial society of blog”
Far from being a leader
And definitely, my name is not Gog!
This isn’t my Cantos but a litany to
Parcel 38 Grave No. 509,
My brief moment, said I - to reflect, and confine.
My intention is to imply that the usurper of balanced life
Lives inside of me hidden at the bottom of my soul
Dressed up like a Zoroastrian priest, and
Could only be an equal to the imperator of farce,
As [it is] an unfortunate part of my character in a lockdown.
I dream, in this playground, summers of joy and love
A sweet-dream that is released on the wings of a dove
Kept from the curious eyes in her secret chamber of patience
Not fragmented or corroded,
Not boycotting as a dissident with a flag in his arm
But giving an understanding and relentless calm.
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