boxed into self-inflicted confinement
reverberations intensify shackles
towards the pinnacle of circular charge
blow out the fuse they emphasized
we need a circuit breaker for the echo
when the surge reaches its pinnacle
thoughts and beliefs amplify the crest
of what turned out to seem a battle of words
a coat of arms painted in repetitive darkness
polarization and confirmation bias within
a closed system insulated from rebuttal
dead end roundabout impasse and stalemate
as the echo filters reality illusions concur
with distortions half-truths of corroboration
testimonial endorsement of fantasy worlds
when the sieve becomes strained and deluded
the drain overflows with misinformation
perspectives must change to reframe the mind
ample proportions need not succumb
to fortified chambers of stagnant circles
hashtag rehashing in order to heal reflect
01st December 2024
Every dusk of the dawn he rises to immanent blues
Melancholia like echolalia embraces his morning
Combatting the blaze and blinded by mourning
He settles for the day whatever the weather inside
Scorching steps in the heat he rides waves of the river
Tears have dried up the rays of light that were his
And will be when solar floods shadow muddy prisms
He is a dweller quelling in sadness for what seems eternal
Moments and yet his sorrow is finite will be kindled by love
Saved by a rainforest of shelter in the warmth of her kindness
He kindles Mother Earth and wakes up to his soul mates’ smile
Before long when his whine has turned water he drinks from
The fountain ingests the fire on his skin saved and restored
Soon Sunna and Neptune dance in tune with each other and
Showered by sunshine reigns of rainfall enlighten what becomes
How long have you been here Echo 1?
Can't say, Echo 2.
You can't say or you won't say?
Both.
It's weird not hearing an echo here.
It's weird not hearing an echo here.
That was you saying that.
That was you saying that.
This isn't funny.
Yes it is.
Villanelle : Bequeath not an image which is not wholly your own
Bequeath not an image which is not wholly your own
No not all the tasters of Isphaha can patch it back whole
Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan
Poetasters all to echolalia Babel be haunted gone
Where words will sour and curdle in a soup bowl
Bequeath not an image which isn’t wholly your own
No patchy poet’s torn image can verily be sewn
Whose poems cannot own up to an innate soul
Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan
Who says poets are not to the calling be yet re-born
Which mewling mumbler hacked his way to the goal
Bequeath not an image which isn’t wholly your own
The easiest persona is still the begetter of the poem
Words strung in any old order fit well into any old hole
Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan
No treasure equal to a people’s spirit anyone disown
The fearless voices of a people’s pain the world console
Bequeath not an image which is not wholly your own
Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
All I hear through the songs
In that rhythmic tempo out of your lungs
Your woeful mourning and sorrow
Your elegiac speech of morrow
The same old lines in despair
When you sing the notes and share
The scented lyrics of lilacs
Your frolic is sometimes lissome sometimes lax
And those pop songs in mania
The isolated rhythm in echolalia
Your big heart pumping hard
Being entrapped hitting itself all around
Your gasping soul sweats
Still the same melody comes out of thy chest
Don’t shout; don’t even squeeze your scratched heart
It’s still the same song
Still people enjoy thy twittering
When you are hung!
Come and be calm on my arm
And I will play your song and will be your balm
Dazzle at my eyes with thy shiny eyes
Still I enjoy this line when it says:
“Drink to me, only with thine eyes.”
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