Inside a poematician’s percipience


mind cast into intolerable darkness;
a stream of thought not willing to wither,
for the moon’s palms on the brain have been folded.

while we beat the drum by the skin,
it is worth we nourish the skin with shear;
and dream our palms as golden.

wisdom is a knot—
it cost not much to dilute the blood of a toad,
but for human— golden drums of sweat is worth a dying soul needs.

the brain is a grain of soil;
to light a spirit,
you must die thrice to thrive the open ancestral world—

there is a pool we can’t cross—
it is the tiniest pool ever forged by creation;
it is the tear in our duct.

the more you try wiping: 
the more the distance journey made to it,
the hollows elongate with immune disillusion.

I am in a paradigm’s dune—
a fluid flying snow balls calling for address,
but could the images of old be found in the tombs of the pharoahs’?

measure a land with a heart.
sleep on floating leaves on water surfaces—
just let your love be in strides of the winds blowing this soul.

I am under thy feet;
questions sealed in envelope to my outer world,
a world where sleep is for mosquito bites — and touch is for ebola subduction.

in a trance of puzzle,
rides the canoe of riddles—
but who is there to ring the bells of solution?

ears set on listening alert;
gong beating from the political rally—
parrot talks and chanting brewed from ignoramous candies.

I wish to sing but pains stifled voice chord won’t let flow—
for a stream of darkness still melts my faith away!
and where did, “the frog went wrong,
that he be a sufferer of the lizard that ate the pepper”?

miles made in mirage;
thoughts seasoned under a colander—
but can there ever be a mistake without justification?

I blush to the sides of the race;
hoping the leaps under the river,
would cause little fragments to ooze out of the boulders.

life is a cunning woven webs—
one truth is a thousand intruded lies,
with no one perfecting an imperfected mistakes.

drains of a valley on the mind…
heavy doses of molecular identity on winter winds—
but somewhere in a pin-hole— is a missing hole to see through.

I want discordant answers from philosophy;
but solemn pieces of melodies from naked birds,
wrenches no place for solitude.

is that a better place from home?
could whistles of a stranger be heard best by a native?
all shall soon be moonshine— and cliché of moonlight.

The Village Thinker © 2014


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