Sore Illusion

Tippling I’m from the ink-pot by the pen Fool drunkard on the path of expression Wandering I’m on the bone of thorax Going to leprosy feelings of thrall No smiling, no crying, paralyzed I’m An obsession invites only to grope Seemingly got I everything alone But in light discover me as nothing Oh! It is trap in white path of paper Inks concise me in self sorrowful bud Oh! Its ladybird in my lame writings Blindly kisses hypnotic nectarine Blundering blends me without self knowing Its way of wisdom but sore illusion -November 27, 2018 Chattogram