Observations of a Detained Mind

Cutback from progress,
footloose and honest.
These are the pundits
of our fate.

When sits and broods
the poet,
through all the weathers
the climates,
leans back the painted
footnotes of authority.

Rude the comments,
with memory of self regard.
One to follow them
blindly,
one to stand on guard.

These are men of importance,
observe them as they pass.
They are all too human.
Judges, even of our past.

Our future lays there
in their shivering palms.
One less to worry about
if they drop it fast.

We are always taken aback,
always under impression
that we are being held back.
We are in depression.

Our coats, our hats,
come off easy
when they come to visit.
Looking down on everything
and anything.

We are all being held accountable
for all of our actions.
Now we must ask some questions.
It is that which
is to be ascertained...
What greatness lies ahead?
And not to stop at inquisition,
let us as well
go far
and break the solid-gaseous-liquid,
build another road of ours.

Scribble Thy Cure

Away, away momentarily!

Depart the warm spaces you borrowed.
The overstay of your festivity
brings ambiguous laughter to a simple ode.

Glancing left, then swaying right
is apathy’s brand new nature
and in it’s decadence to a formidable sprite
nature itself dances-swifts from theater to theatre.

Who’s there? Who applauds
an eterne war of universe and me?
Show yourself, I charge thee and accord
‘tis my reason and desire to surmise thy filth.

Kill, or be killed

From the depths of a hollow within
to the outlines of creation.
To heath, these whispering words speak
antecedent, kill or be killed.

Had been man corrupted,
your ideals too could be declared.
Your descendants are too afraid.

Formless,
unsustainable he has collected
weapons that will be instrumental.
For him war and peace resemble
to her modern liking.
She, an earthly pious woman
who dares to give him birth.
Nature's bodily manners are cruel
and her looks are striking.

Kill, or be killed,
the modern lesson
forbidden to government
through their children in their passing
cope with naivete.
When those who follow are willing to kill,
those protesting powerless.

Something wholesome
remnant
in spherical injunction
that the lazy cannot ascertain
in losing their lives
to wonder, to boredom.

It is sin
which leaves them.
to perish in nothingness
and celebrates triumphant
with the usual human ways.
Man and woman, they come together
in the framework
of the present
for them,
now danger is to survival
to kill, or be killed.

And nature will ever remain
quiet and fragmented,
for life has devoured it since its genesis,
since its existence.

Curtains

I don't have to touch
whatever is on the other side,

as you will walk into

my house

you will see, what I see

when I'm far away

from home.

Where I Go, When We Sleep

Looking, but ignoring
all which is asleep.
I, the perishable, the fallen, the creep.
Am I a moment captured
in the blink of an eye?
Are we the numbers
that just are, but,
not necessarily immortal?

So, the rest of the time
can give us all
which it has ever seen,
and the blackness,
the stark darkness in which we swim,
as we sleep,
can give us all it has to give,
our life and blood though it may take.

Where I go, when we sleep together
is a place where the dead never wake.
There is no holy ground,
none but that empty sound
of an interstellar drive.
Disdain to reign
over and over,
restless as we may be.

The cigarettes that consume our anger,
is pointed skywards.
The clouds are getting torn apart,
the lightening and the rain
separates us.
There is something hidden,
so, belief and faith and reason
many colors they create,
every rain drop
withholds my misery
but your umbrella stays.

I bathe in the holy water,
it has put me in hypnosis,
all the wars waged upon us,
defeat us,
we are prey to certain venomous things
they exist where I go.
It is a disturbed sleep we share together.
Insomnia, if you may.

Chronicler

How long has it been?

How many days,
since you last felt alive,
since you last felt interested in life.
It is true, I have not
appreciated all the beautiful moments
preserved in our world.
I have scattered all the colors
in a disfigured way.
This picture is now damaged
beyond repair,
yet every day
I visit it's grave.

I keep on turning back
to find your ghost,
you were in the song,
you are all that is there now.
These empty words,
pictures, emotions
have no happiness,
without you it is a boring chronicle,
without you, the chronicler
is in doubt.

Not everything is bad though,
somethings, like the death of the radio,
the death of download, the death
of togetherness and of lively days.
Lower than the voice of the muted
weeping,
the glory of my silent chronicler
lies somewhere unnoticed always,
unseen by the world,
unappreciated, but
not un-required.

A chronicler,
for all the roads who cannot speak,
for the bus rides that are smelly,
usually for you and me.