You don't see my eyes...
They look away whilst my cheeks
with a band worn thin,
hold up this mask.

With effortless ease,
I maintain this smile
plastered upon the sheen
of cheap mouldable plastic.

Fooling others
with a face acceptable by default,
when my neck and collar
stain wet.

Protected and hidden
are my innermost thoughts
and emotions - a morbid
sense of oneness and freedom.

I, therefore, cannot shed
such an accoutrement.
This mask - a fort I will hold and
a bastion, I will not compromise.

Because behind it I feel safe, hidden
and unjudged.

Life is not a laboratory formula
or an immutable recipe
a tinge of that and this
moments that make you happy--

in its kitchen there's to be found
salt, sugar, honey, pepper, chili
sauce, cider, lime, garlic, ginger
many more-- whether savoury

or not--it all depends on
your taste, preference and what you fancy
attitude makes all the difference
you are the chef--are you ready

your best to render?
awaiting are your friends and family
their appetites are whetting
what are the delicacies to be?

I'm a romantic--unashamedly
love and beauty means all to me
yet it's the tinge of different moods
and moments with you that I desire intimately.

The morning is the song
sing well before the sunset
let the world hear it as you move along
leave no room for regret

Live the day
carpe diem?
but it's a hybrid
a cross-over
a carry-forward
from yesterday
the day
and days
before yesterday

the work-in-progress
that has to be completed
and what's undone
will be in transit
in the continuum of time
for today doesn't end
with a full-stop
but with a comma
to affix itself to endless
ones to follow. Question marks
fill its pages interspersed
with semi-colons that abound-
and exclamations are not
gestures of joy or triumph
but more like lamentations
and heavy sighs-

24 hours
it makes no sense
it's a device designed
to fragment time
and moments- the day
merely holds activities
in suspense- nothing
is perfectly done

the day is but a stop-over
a page in the calendar of time
part of a song or a symphony
awaiting fine-tuning
a book that's unfinished
a hesistant poem in the making

everyone is a performer
the stage- curtain
never falls like
the end of a show  

that has to wait
but none knows
when.

Of course
I'm silly
how else could I
be happy?

As soon as
I become serious
I'd look completely
spurious.

I'm unorganised
if I wish to
I could do otherwise-

you are organised
faced with an unorganised
situation you'd end with grievous cries!

I wish not
to be understood
it would do me
not the slightest good-

let the silence
be unbroken
nothing is superior
to the unspoken.

I was a child then
leaves and flowers
I adored even when
they were drenched in rain-showers.

My joys multiplied
foliage of every kind
stirred my imagination
deep impressions it left behind

seamless colours, shapes, sizes
a collage that did humble
the paintings of the masters
whatever genius they did assemble

time has stolen such grace and majesty
old age is telling on my face
I'd gladly perish with every
flower or leaf where belongs my place.