A backwash of death and body's decay,
The soul—once dwelt within me—is no more.
In life-death script's passably long play,
I could not—I don't know why—reach the shore.
I lie naked now with many others,
Forgetting caste, colour, creed, polity;
Confronting all weather with no druthers,
Pushed towards a preset equality.
Isn't there, in my core, an inner strength?
There's a truth of perseverance of life;
There is, in me, an endless breadth and length
Of forgone pains of existential strife.
Am I the monarch of this breathless deep,
Or just a puppet death has put to sleep?
in the absence of complication,
trials and tribulations become distant memories.
above sapphire skies delight sanguine eyes -
inspiring forthcoming musings of the mind.
ambiguity of thoughts once grounded
forthwith on the wings of dreams
ascend beyond the constrains of life
fronting fate in the expansion of hope
whispers of darkness no longer fall
as secrets silenced by a rise of dawn
they passably regain meaning anew
as lips tremble in a longed for first kiss
feathered touches brush against flesh
bodies arc together in pulsating rhythms
becoming seductive silhouettes of a timeless love
whereas shadows are no longer mirages on walls
seconds no longer seem eternal
through resounding echoes of time
as hours become countless spans on wings
soaring in the absence of complications
November 16,2019
France is now ruled by Macroniens,
A species of urban boboniens,
Passably bright,
Not too far Right,
But perhaps just the latest d….d phonyens.
To keep France in order, the PoF
Must avoid moves might put them off :
An appeal to the Centre
Is a smart way to enter,
But too motley his triumph to bring off.
Credit, and how ! where credit is due,
Macron’s talent is rivalled by few.
He’s redrawn for the times
The political lines,
Like Bonaparte, de Gaulle and their crew.
His hold on power is complete,
Jupiter with cast hyper-elite.
No proles are in sight,
Now that can’t be right,
They may come to think he’s a cheat.
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