The doldrums of these midnight hours-
Like the receding waves at the beach,
Remind me of my evanescing youth.
There is profundity in waves,
That undulate in deeper oceans-
Than those that gnaw away at the shore.
For the mendicant of thoughts,
Sleep is a virtuous incentive.
For the explorers of thoughts,
It is simply a cursed routine.
It is not a surprise why the hungry,
Seldom bother how the food is cooked-
Or why the chef's palate is insatiable.
Now, I am a book going to print.
I write myself as myself I read.
My work weaves my days as pages,
And events therein, the bookmarks.
Come tomorrow's day thither-
Some words closer to the ******,
I shall think of past days' ink,
That lay dry in gross memory,
And wish some days ebbed-
And some others, rewritten.
If the final page comes forward,
Unbeknownst to me then-
I shall live by the little legacy,
In the journals of the reader.
Your genteel keenness to deny me my identity,
Has impelled a lenient amnesia in me.
Pray, allow me to be rediscovered-
In the dark luster of your eyes,
And in the plush depths of your thoughts.
The gentle high of the ****** Mary,
Makes midnight's breeze seem like Jazz.
A mere glimpse of your opulent eyes,
Hammers me like tequila on ice.
We covet the nature of things,
Like dreams knocking at reality.
As adults in some offices pause-
To mourn over their own death.
An equanimous person squats,
At the shores of flowing thought-
Seemingly free and perennial,
What if rivers are forced to flow-
And the drops that don't comply,
Are imprisoned in ponds by rain?