Doom.
Put a finger to it, and it's gone
Worry. Come to life
Tangible. Almost
"It is well" I mumble inaudibly
"It is well" I mumble again
It is the armaggedon. Mental ragnarok
Sirens wailing
Dread overwhelming
Gloom.

Men do.
Women are.

Despite the amount of moisture the playground gets,
footfall would not just let the green of the grass bloom.
Like the receding hairline of a balding middle-aged man,
the green patches of grass, unevenly spread across the field.

One leg. Then the other

Is how a man gets out of his pant trouser.

......
@incognitaio

Now that wall of clay and mud
has given way to bricks and blocks.
Path, paved by so many feet
now a-glow with tar and asphalt
House names matter no longer
Children now point out their father's house
in description with their left-hand finger.


@incognitaio

An assembly of parts to make a whole,
Where in nought need be added, removed
Or adjusted..

B E A U T I F U L
...
@incognitaio

Winking or blinking?
As the eye lied.

The well, like an old abandoned wife, now stood in contempt to the modern boreholes with their fancy hand pumps. Husband's favorite. Young, firm, and perky.  
The thick murky water no longer serves the purpose of drinking. The lid, more often than not, left lying idle against the outer wall. No one knew how deep she was. No one ever bothered for fear of the depth.

Those sixteen seater buses are hard enough to get comfortable in as it is without having  mother with an infant at her back on the row. Usually, you would want to lobby for the window side seat for better ventilation. She does not seem concerned though, hardly noticing the other two seat mates. The infant at her back, even less bothered. Not a sound or even a stir. Hard and unflinching as a rock, mother and child both. Oblivious to everything around them. They both could have been deaf and dumb for as much sound as they made.

The child at her back had been dead for six hours....
  ...
     @incognitaio

For what do trees have to complain about.
The consistency in bird droppings?
The dead, the size of his headstone?
Or his unfair share of worms.


@incognitaio

Versions and versions of how I met your mother did I write.
Just because your potential mother kept changing.
Consider the last, the legitimate one.
All other editions are but drafts.

Much Love,
    Your (Future) father.

@incognitaio

In our quest for perfection,

We postpone.

In our attempt at excellence,

We procrastinate..


...
@incognitaio

Skirts and trousers along the street.

Let there be peace in the act of love.
'''
@incognitaio

Groomed stallion with strap-in saddle.

Sure footed on paved path.

Rein in hand.

Shall I let her wander?

...

@incognitaio

Why they run, I do not know.
Neither can I begin to ponder.
Race to life, love or leisure.


@incognitaio

"Eyes, once full of hope and lofty dream, Now stare at passer-by,  all

rheumy eyed. Gait of the man that once was. Like a sign post, saying:

Here!, 'how I do not want to be when I am grown"
...

@incognitaio

To that first strand of Grey....

That pointer to agedness.
Bridge between cradle and grave.
Fine line between ode and dirge.
It is wisdom. It is senility.
Subtle reminder to how on earth, we are briefly gorgeous.
That first strand of grey.

@incognitaio