Creation of the determinant ‘Its’

Sounds mingle so distantly,

catch circles like flame-flutters

on waves coring the pebble of being

Sat on the brink of its stream,

eternally wishing-

in what cannot be had

Dissolving its moulds

and never its borders,

The frontier of self

exiled from its atrial home,

raised in the flux identity

of Nation’s blind refuge

stalks on a Juggernaut falter line

in the migration of ourselves;

the molten blood quakes

to disperse its silt of skin

One foot misguided by its other

One mind misaligned by another,


Along parched lips of a dry river bank

in the aimless taste of our stare,

with the coining of currency,

we forget kindness and sit,

sat by fenced exchanges of heart,

on the septum of difference;

an empty acre chamber floods

in the muted nature of one man,

listening for the other side of this wall,

where a curtain of sheets patterns

honeycombed, the lattice hive of life

And the songs of children are birds

in flight of the voice calling for himself.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s