The Silent Hour
Whittle a stick down the silent water
by the river side a confused chapter
caught in cross-hairs the trees were humming
turning twigs as leaves were turning
meet he who handles the ore
that roars the boat in the silent waters,
the silent waters a place,
where fishing goes on on a daily basis
caught in a nice rainbow
he casts his nets
to communicate with the creatures underneath
this is just a waste of his talent
damn!! said the fish as it hit a concrete rock
he stretches his efforts struggling with the creatures
a tufted niche to hedge his bets
a cocktail of soar yet sweet smell emanates
as the creatures are squeezed into baskets
In a bumpy ride
comes a Caucasian man
slim with grey hair and a grey beard
he seems too old for his age
I watched as he took the fisherman's toil,
dash and rush as he leaves in his hilux
silenced, no guts to speak
the fisherman feigns a smile
this is just a waste of his efforts
a choir of emotions cast a spell
as a deep mysterious language
of yearning for equity evokes.
why reap where you never sow??
a series of feelings cobweb my mind
wishing light to the dark
to transform ill souls
overcoming the pain
the man walks away
lost in self pity
his efforts futile
vulnerable never goad
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