Soliloquy

The observations of the afternoon surpass the grace
The rhythmic winds have while fleeting past the
Menace that your words create. The afternoon, as always,
Works itself into a tizzy before losing touch with the
Feeling that had once made it tick, and bother.

For the ways of the world to touch me, enthral me,
I must lose myself to the woods of the east which
Beckon my attention soon after the sun rises. I know
Very little of the comings and goings, or the ebbings
And flowings of the tides that have been imposed on me.

The highs of the morning lay naked in the entrapments
Of the galleys that my utterings once made, once sated.
But now, evading the responsibility that life’s wonderless
Existence has now foisted upon me, I dread the Monday
Morning review meetings which bring my fears up to date.

The timings of my worries coincide with the assessment
That love’s timid hands make on my equally timid heart;
To be set free in this barrow of endless possibilities without
The heart to question my self-worth for once must be the
Deliverance from the bondage that I seek all afternoon.

Your wakeful remembrances push me past the corridors
Of uncertainty in which the Flame of the Forest to the north
Sheds its apprehensions. Suspended beyond relief at the
Observations that a mind borne with clarity can evoke,
I marvel at your nerve for giving me another chance.

Every saint needs a sinner to survive, and the latter’s
Indulgences are the ones the former seeks to suppress;
Had it been the other way around, and Pista House
Failed to export the best Haleem to lands once besotted
With droughts, life would have been celebratory.

For in the desert, you celebrate nothing but water.
In such pensive moments, I often find myself
Wondering at and wandering in the sphynx that
Your absences have helped; the meaning of to be lost
In this loveless existence came to me when I died.

Which word would stand on the floor than the one that
Betrayed the essence of what I tried to express? The
Wind, benign as always, assumes the form of the shape-
Shifting godless paramountcy it has always been;
I push the door open into the evening as gently as I can.

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