the Storm writes ,observant ,again n the cocktail overflows
Blue Haze.
---------------
The fire-crackers have rage in them.
The distant monuments ,quite familiar actually-
Have moss-kiss’d cracks..reminding of old wars though,
And familiar figures have criss-crossed designs on them,
The flowers seem too wild to melt to loving touch.
What is it that dazes the eyes,
Beyond horizons? The century old Ambition of Empires new.
And that unknown song within us.
The binoculars capture fleeting pleasures,
Of unknown fancies.Roads usually lead to nowhere.
The bee-hive of Power has been struck at again,
Conjured loneliness creeps into drugg’d minds,
The Artist sits and smiles at the swastika on the doors,
The dagger manages to wound rusted injuries ,buzzing..
In the head..outside..all around..The heart no longer can wait..
”Busy” is always the correct word now.
The footpaths do justice to lost identities,
And there are slums in Big houses,
Freedom from self does now threaten-
To start a riot in the rotten minds.
The beggar becomes a lord and the Lord a beggar-
The souls interchange at the traffic signals ,
How silly of you to have never noticed the snake within,
That is uncoiling in the Nation-Poverty seeks fame.
And distant greens in the films of eyes,
Eats up the unfinished memory of recollections-
Poets die many times these days to relive new pains.
Droning , shaking ,singing in sly voices,
Turn back ,old friend! Places have much to say.
A date? Surely at the time when curtains heralded,
That Truth that walked across the bare street,groaning.
In today’s world,Reality kills a lot more than poetry it seems.
---------------
The fire-crackers have rage in them.
The distant monuments ,quite familiar actually-
Have moss-kiss’d cracks..reminding of old wars though,
And familiar figures have criss-crossed designs on them,
The flowers seem too wild to melt to loving touch.
What is it that dazes the eyes,
Beyond horizons? The century old Ambition of Empires new.
And that unknown song within us.
The binoculars capture fleeting pleasures,
Of unknown fancies.Roads usually lead to nowhere.
The bee-hive of Power has been struck at again,
Conjured loneliness creeps into drugg’d minds,
The Artist sits and smiles at the swastika on the doors,
The dagger manages to wound rusted injuries ,buzzing..
In the head..outside..all around..The heart no longer can wait..
”Busy” is always the correct word now.
The footpaths do justice to lost identities,
And there are slums in Big houses,
Freedom from self does now threaten-
To start a riot in the rotten minds.
The beggar becomes a lord and the Lord a beggar-
The souls interchange at the traffic signals ,
How silly of you to have never noticed the snake within,
That is uncoiling in the Nation-Poverty seeks fame.
And distant greens in the films of eyes,
Eats up the unfinished memory of recollections-
Poets die many times these days to relive new pains.
Droning , shaking ,singing in sly voices,
Turn back ,old friend! Places have much to say.
A date? Surely at the time when curtains heralded,
That Truth that walked across the bare street,groaning.
In today’s world,Reality kills a lot more than poetry it seems.