Starved of work his sharpened blade
is dulled by anonymity,
feckless, drifting here and there,
he has no true identity,
time has no fidelity,
and space has no consistency,
he has no frames of reference to rely on.
Work is the measure of the man,
his strengths and limitations.
Now, shrunken wallet, shineless shoes
and shrinking reputation,
a shadow of his former self,
a soulless apparition
wholly spent, a stranger to the seasons.
Categories:
shineless, loss, seasons,
Form: Verse
Let it be, a dawn prayer,
dripping with fantasy
intercepting the strip-search of soul
tempting a mad psyche.
The sleeping volcano was going to celebrate,
put the sign on.
Perfectly shineless hands will raise
the banner to donate kidneys, eyes and heart
to the broken star,who on the name of book
was sending the empty cadaver on ivory car,
a saviour from carnage, to mimic
a divine touch.
Why are they playing with flames of summer ?
Poor minutes were sinned, the centuries
will suffer now. On the green leaves
a nightingale lies bleeding !
SATISH VERMA
Categories:
shineless, adventure, allegory, angst, animals,
Form: I do not know?