His body swayed with the weight of his soul,
His heart was cramped with the feelings he stole
From the glance of his gory eyes. He walked ashore
And stood within the grasp of waves that rose
To salute his feet and wash his mind clear from
The deeds that sank him down a hole.
He was anon, his stature had grown.
He missed the breath and snore of people he had known.
Sleeplessly walking in the night. He stood aloof
In the brightness of a ghastly light that showed
A city washed with gutters, dried in coarse
Sand and cloth, everything that dirt endowed.
He smoothed the wrinkles on his vest,
Leaving the finer details of opulence to the rest
Of the crowd to discern.
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My throat is dry,
Dehydrated by the fear that permeates my future.
Drowned in the acid that holds tomorrow in despair.
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There is no solace for a soul as kind
As a winter morning which lets me sleep
For longer hours as she withers in the biting frost.
Hadn't it been for her concern I may wake up
And dream. And sail my thoughts on ships
That avert to the slightest hint of wind. Lead astray
My mind on hopes of pots of gold, buried beneath
A surface bold and hard and worn with the wintry chill.
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Do my eyes see far, or do they bend with the earth
As she floats around the sky trying to find a place
To rest, but circles around till she dies, ever chained
To a bigger brain, which rules with fury and disdain.
Does she not flower from his grace, his mindless grace.
On random thoughts in the absence of creativity.
-- Mohan
