Our
Democracy
The theme of
question is to outwit,
While the
tail of position curling behind,
“What is
your plan?” Misty eyes grind—
Indolence
self-vindicating—guffawing fit.
The mildewed
old sensitivity still reigns
Despite
litany of self-praises, our goodness—
The bestowed
people’s rights to meekness.
Criticism-Resistance-phobia
in form benign.
Our
Common Enemy
“How much
you could say against yonder?”
The said
ambiguous enemy, the tool of time
When just to
silence off a voice on a dime—
One aimed inwards
or against one’s dearer.
Yes, oh, shouldn’t
I ask myself,
“How much it’s
intended to hurl there
Rather than mouthing
grandiloquence
And, so disgustingly,
siding aloof?”
My Fate
Squishy golden
autumn leaves matted out before me—
The fallen gold
and the hanging gold illumine a sepia splendor,
In which I deceive
myself the time is healing, always lovely;
The effect is
of the overcast sky and shaded vibes. They glisten.
As so saddening
a close friend estranging away
As my own fellow
fall narrower; as odd conceit
Keeps us apart
as my own odyssey, the one I need,
Numbs me from
being able to figure out myself—the oddity, my fate.
Now my own side
pops up,
A voice carrying
such tender venom,
And wants me
to galvanize into gyrating so—
“Learn farming
by looking at your neighbor!”
If I do so,
Then how we will
look and fall?
Should I do so?
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