Entangled strands thinking bright
For light so shone powerless might
Through the tunnel so escaping
Words of feather cast benign
Each on self, full in size
Must so rhyme inside
Glints of chords to dust
And dispersed in yellow sight
Diffused into greens and browns
As eyes might heart beat
Fires in forest sacrifice
To legends that rose to woven heights
None could tell which one’s which
For threads also prime
Because, because and because
In moonlit nights
Upon surface waters shine
Hopes clad in white
As winds gently sweep
Heaps of ink to write
In yarns warm and hands clean
Temple worn with feather behind
Earth which then gravity resume
To hold on light
Often then arose behind the veil
Walking down wet shores
Humble each step leading
To demise gravity off my feet
Cutting off all strings
Into water where I find
A dream cleansed inside…



Words are not yours!

Words pass you by...

Centuries of pseudo intellectualism…

Once a ‘keystone’ man in a feeble suit

blackened of  the new words’ soot.

A flower to rejoice, not the root,

what would you call him, else a coot?

For the words are not yours.

Of the one, who did fish

a catch to his own plate.

Share the appetite, not the catch!

For the words are not mine either,

a mere portrayal of sleepwalking ideas,

flowing down channel of fury.

Aided by the jukebox to resound!

To be human, be tamed by words

the profound joys of life,

down the impeccable cliff

in a mystical sea of thought.

Then back to the sleepwalk,

 surrenders the experience,

and yet another keystone at the hell’s gate,

playing the unvarying pseudo- intellect again!