I am a ‘boy’…


…..from the mind of a village,
thousand thoughts in my heart—
worries glowing glorious each day,
and never yielding the results dreamed of.

…….is blood thicker than water?
but why is blood never enduring?
love is not blood….
for blood is water!

……you should know what thoughts are,
to be able to tell what worries are….
realities aren’t blindfolded eyes—
but the picture is clear,
as reality is powerful than fantasy.

— I am a boy!
a worried soul—
million folded sheets of dreams,
mocked by billion cooked agonies—
from the pots of realism fuming fantasy;
but where is my beloved society to save me?

——many dreams festooned on the nipples of life;
stagnant pieces not getting comfortable wheels to propel—
and when I met my grandfather’s ghost…..
he whispered….
“life is a holographic hypothesis of chlorinated sample lab test by litmus”—

——I am a boy!
unknown to the dews,
but bitten to shadows by vipers;
and summarised to coupon sticker on the wall—
set to motion by winking paradoxes of brigade in advertisements.

— like a filtrate from filtration;
so it is for the random polls embedded in dexterity,
and a structural ecological dreams——
where a fimble is a negativity synchronous theorem for a filum.

——I am a boy!
a woven fantasy of flawed idiosyncratic concord,
a systemic lobbied trails under critical observation—
and stand to be corrected by a magnanimous thesis;
“is life not a confused dichotomy of blinded ghosts”?

….like a capsized titanic,
nothing baffles a braided rastafarian—
than being a sting of societal mirrage,
where society looks at your locks and attributes your lime to strange looks!

but a boy is never a man,
and a man never a boy—
until the eyebrows of life takes on the wisdom in the grey eyelashes…..

—–always feckless and saturated;
an upland dome of cones—
rising to unlimited fragrance in the fragments…
and hallelujah of virgin angels in the church unto—
crescent lifelong pool of salvation of repented souls.

——I am a boy!
but wisdom they say is not gold,
but a simple brewed essence of divinity…..
and where there exist too brightly fooled hormones,
drunk are the scrupulous critics of sublime.

inside a threshold is a familiarised pleasure—
yet ironically there is no leisure without pressure—
and when an oak sleeps,
it blinkards are laid on the pivot of an ear alert.

……I am a boy!
just a tip of the grains of a village,
where silence no longer means concern;
but replicated woes of deeper thoughts and coordinated reflections—

The Village Thinker © 2014

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