A Lumbering Soul

A small whirlwind skirts along,

The wreathing crisp-brown leaves rustle,

The spiral of its upward rotating current navigates,

This soul lumbers not to miss the navigation...

An itinerary free of charge around by air—

Wherever wishfully destined for with this air-body.

Passing through solidity like a curtain of fog,

I see at a glance how ill-destined this world is:

Embedded in the quagmire of ill-activities,

A single mature motive hard among 1000 mobile…

And the pains scattered, more in Haiti now—

Still we produce to suffer as of this myopia inclined.

A Charade

Lost or gone the traces still conspicuous…

To masquerade as what I’m not the then

I find at my wit’s end—

The mortal combat on the brink of a sad defeat.

Stand on, I try rather hopelessly

The sown impression seed so robustly vibrant—

I tangle with blindly teetering and sliding.

Yet another dawn, I muse, there should be

Where this huge aggregate of consciousness blotted out.