An overburdened beast
Hanging on for dear life and damn death
calls from wild singing
of forefather’s fears and futuristic vibes
There, there, go slow my friend
from Devil’s abode to God’s kindness
where efforts will pay fruits
as you slumber
such is the rest you are provided
in peace
Yet, the Devil might show up
might take your hand and waltz
might make you dream of cows and singing bells
the dream you abandoned
in favour of being The God’s light
The Musk of rain, the pit-stop of knowledge
my dear muse, is only but
your own making, be alive , bedazzle
take along my casket of wine
drag on it when divine!
I fall into the luxury trap of poetry often, oftentimes it is a lap for my baby-mind, a puppet-body for its caress and it dances to its rhythm like it has seen God and yet, the face of human is more alight. Such is poetry’s defiance, it protests even when the heaven has descended on its head, it wants an equal piece for every mind that is curious. Alas!, but that’s so childish and batty. A batty child throwing a tantrum for sleep?
