The paths of my mission would be rows of roses, I thought.
To my shock, in tipsy turvy twists and turns, I got tossed
Didn't I desire to know the known to know the unknown?
Each wish of mine, like worn-out shoes of a nomad, got torn.
The moon of joy in my gains should have been at the zenith.
Struggles, like palms, tall-grow. Bliss, like dried grass, peeps from beneath.
Like iron-rods in saline waters getting eroded
The weakness of my will, like pumpkin buds, is unfolded.
Virtues, as fallen scaffoldings, are disintegrated.
Absurdity, like the blood red moon, is reiterated.
My vigour, before my puniness, like a dewdrop, fades.
Apprehension and anxiety, like gems, I adorn.
Pessimism lifts its head like boom-slang cobras from burrows.
Coffins and graves compose knells. The deceased have no repose.
Death and decay have become the blessed norm of the day.
Despair and disappointment, like thorns, pierce through every way.
Self-confidence is erased like mud paths during monsoons.
Will the Times, like the rainbow chromas, bring multihued boons?
I wish
I were a cold, cold lifeless stone
when crushed by a careless trudging foot
no pain bemoans.
I wish
I were a nebulous cloud
the playful wind bungles round around
now lady-like floats
then ghost-like bloats
unharmed by its might.
I wish
I were a massive cathedral
where life's grandeur and puniness
unfold
tangle up
and blend
that stands on unimpressed and uninvolved.
I wish
I could run away from the claws
of unending pain and conflict
then easy it would be!
But what are these gifts for
of heart
and mind
and love?
If there would be...
no glow at sunrise?
no thrill at the call of the beloved?
no ecstasy at the birth of a child?
no rapture at success?
no bliss at the dawn of truth?
no aches and pains?
no agonies and poignant torture of loneliness?
I wish
I knew what there is to gain by being human
When the clouds have vanished
I wish to know, and sure am I
I'd still wish to be human,
.............even pay the price.
we started with thomas hardy
we went onto dickinson
then onto wordsworth
as the clock
ticks
by
the material makes me dry up like a leaf (that’s a simile)
damn these poets and their puniness
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