How educational to look through
The scab, a curtain, panes and dew
To see a magpie on the lawn,
Reminding us, that we are all contrasts
Of our own diabolical need to contradict.
Like how we go against the conscience
Time and again, like it was just a meaningless
Voice, perhaps a psychosis of our fears,
To take out mainstays like tradition
And that contradiction is why we are all paraded on a stage
In striped pajamas, that too a contrast
Like the jumping magpies, when we are
Only axiological trophies of love
That you parade inside your heart
And love is a prison sentence of how
Blood makes little lines connect,
And soul-mate makes magnetic poles meet,
And only when we crash out of those grips,
Those strangleholds, love has on us,
Are we are free to be anything we can be.
And still we move back, searching for love
To reembrace the creatures that make
You part of a flock, the three types
That define love in earnest
Those who stick together,
Those who are stuck together,
And those who are stocked together.
And what defines them are the invisible glues
That time applies to define three anatomies,
And their degrees of togetherness.
The soul, the heart and the mind;
Stick, stuck and stock.
Everyone says that a troubled personality
Is a fertile plot for garden weeds.
But I say, that it is a bed full of worms.
Have you seen an idea
Come through from the top to the bottom,
Like a compost bin and your mouth
Utters it, to the extent to which
You understand. In romanticism
Its an epiphany and in a board room
It’s a brainwave, but in plain simple
English, it is a trivial outpouring,
Of what you throw out without a second glance,
Like when worms creep out
Of a canned mouth and you’re
Wondering at why everyone is looking
At you, the wisecracking owl
On a mirror, yet, an Appalachian hillbilly
That stammers out the honesty
Of how little we know and still
We utter no-brainers like nursery rhymes or fanfares.
We don’t nap on a Mensa IQ
Nor do we love with Romeo’s EQ
We are just fools sitting on a made-believe throne
Trying valiantly, to find a crown that fits,
The perimeter of a pumpkin head.
In that balloon blown by biological filler
You find the primordial base
Of form, proliferating in time,
To metamorphose, through a fine line,
Demarcating an endo-parasite,
That when exonerated, turns to a free-loader
In quotidian habit, though in essence,
Is a symbiont by nature.
Do you remember, being in the backseat of the car
Barely a teenager and thinking what happens
After death. That singularity without tangibility.
You look at all the evidences coughed
Out by pages, written in Sanskrit and Hebrew.
Samsara, the reincarnations of our
Own selves and eternal life, that speaks
Of heaven as a donor of an eternity.
Still you know science tells you otherwise.
We are only a strain of transience
A species trapped in impermanence
Looking out through a lens at providence
Unable to make sense of it all.
The road is long, longer than you and I
Can gather and yet shorter than we
Wish for. Death will always be that full stop
The syntax of a poetic verse that abridges
At the settlement of a dot. We are only
Logs of flesh that will feed saprophytes one day
And that leap of faith, that leap into a void,
Will only feed our system, when we
Encounter that finish line. How beautiful
Not knowing where the soul goes,
To where no one knows. We are all Abrahams
Making a sacrifice in faith, on an alter of
A wooden box, in that jump from
Consciousness to a riddle that knows
No answer, knows no alibi, just
A mammoth cloud eclipsing the moon
And your eyes that have spectacular vision
Become exiled in darkness, a perpetual blackout
When there are no tungsten filaments
Just a broken hull, exonerated in time
And fixed in space, not knowing the answer
To that question mark and yet, knowing that
The truth can be so spectacular, when the soul
Becomes free, to roam the endless plains,
The wilderness that lies beyond,
Leaving no trail or proof,
Like decimals of dust, blowing through,
To the great unknown.