Power and military acumen to the mighty king
were  the true weapons of conquest in his possession,
til the time marauding made him squirm with pleasure
went on his trail of terror, destruction and subjugation.
Many wars won;no bloodbath to this iron willed one
ever seemed different from any other, victory was routine

then came a rare moment of pause, a sudden bend
in the path of a roaring river,initiating change.

"It's time to put down this blood splattered crown
envy of others, but  weighing me heavily down"
Frenzied, in no time he removed the thorny crown
and every bit that embellished him from head to toe
in naked glory he stood before the mirror, but why
couldn't he look for a long moment in his own eyes?

"All I see is an architecture of muscles, nerves and blood
on a skeletal frame, no different it is from any other
just lingering  further, all one can see is  dead matter waiting
to dissipate in to elements, when the time rings bell"
(words of his Guru, long long forgotten, came alive)
"The bird is  bound to this cage,with elements for a time
in a flash, it would pass,where then is the bird's true abode?"

All the wars won, achieved only the creation of cycles of pain
countries taken over by brute force,women taken as trophy,
loads of gold, diamonds and riches; just footnotes of an epitaph

"To search and find what really matters, that transcends time"
was the famous last words, before the conqueror's renunciation.

These canaries go on chattering without an end
in their yellowish green language,isn't it queer?
Ambivalent I remain, are they at loggerheads with one another?
noisy canaries, aren't they a bother
                                                      why can't they sit quiet,
and listen to the silence?
But  the canaries are a spirited lot,seems to create a world they like.
what they say is unintelligible, should I listen to them?

A bit, I did, then it acts on me in more ways I than can imagine.
One can sit eyes shut as long as one wish,
                                                          t­heir tweets are sweet after all.
The canaries have a musical gift and a language of their own
they incessantly chant, it takes time to discern it's essence,I find.

There is an expert in canary speak; what's his name?
Yes, Brian, should I get his help to get it explained?
my thoughts turn more focus on the mysteries of canaries.

"Listening to them did a lot of good to you"says my girl.
The doctor is very supportive to the cause of canaries.
"There is wonder in the results of your blood works" he tells.
"The canaries are braking new grounds in my life" I realize
"My blood pressure is down without any medicine",  cool.

I begin to realize what Canary symbolism means,
they led me to a life style never did I dream before
as if by some magic, now I perfectly understand their language
she tells me how quick I am in picking  emotions nowadays!

would you believe this , the canaries are my Gurus nature gifted,
teaching me living, loving and flying away without making noise.

This astonishingly smart work
by an enterprising bunch
of greedy caterpillars on this tree,
symbolizes sweet success itself
(only to them, not for others
I'll have to grudgingly accept)

Look how they devour with a vengeance,
every bit of the gentle greatness, one felt
in presence of the exhilarating fine green crown,
of the lovely tree that stood head held high,
smiling  in scorching sun, storm and rain,
and made me stand awe struck,
for a while the first time I passed
through the path under her thick canopy.

Success has avariciously eaten up glory
a fine creation of many seasons,
without any concern for those
who die for greatness, nothing else!

All that remains to see is this:
whether fragile winged butterflies,
charm personified in vivid colors,
would come out,of this greed?
Though they being a creatures of transience
makes it a bad bad bargain.

After dark, energies flow in manners that pleases them most
braided together in lust, two king cobras were seen spiraling up
when darkness like a camouflage sets in thickly around,you're
the  marijuana of my mind, seeking far horizons of pleasure.
I willingly seek oblivion, when pink pointed goosebumps
like tarantula's love bites, results of mating time cruelty
infest all over my body's landscape, signatures of ecstasy.

I feel your lips become, moist, soft, honey from each drips
never enough,for me, is it possible to get inebriated more?
Your sighs and moans speak the vocabulary of a forgotten
ancient language love hurriedly resurrected for us from past,
brevity is the crux of that lingo of erupting jets of desire,
it teaches you to moan in fifty different tones in all;even more?

Your sharpened nails etch cave murals on my itching back
that has the searing taste of blood, in hot hot chilly red.
my taste buds of lust, begs for more and more of it.
You are the marijuana fueling my narcotic flights that land
in your misty land, enveloping my senses as a whole.
"The night is still young, hear what the darkness whispers"
I hear you speak like an oracle, on things about to happen.

I ventured deep in to the mysteries of mother forest alone,
when I was free from fears of every kind and sweet delusions,
ancient trees recognized me instantly, from some other life past,
and sung me songs when I sat exhausted,their fruits tasted sweet
made me realize how aftermath of every karma returns to one
at a time unexpected; fruits either sweet or bitter they bring.

Under the shades, of trees,hearing the  lullabies they sung
I slept forgetting the wars won or lost in the past, immaterial
all that now seemed
                                Those trees in their love reminded my mother.
I didn't care when I lost the path,in fact, is there a path in the forest?
All paths lead to one destination, there isn't any other,nothing to worry.

Forest with her thousand hands embraced me and said:
"Every king one day, has to take his heavy crown from his head
put down and walk this path wearing dress made of leaves"

There weren't any footsteps fallowing me here, I didn't expect any.

From the green hill, blows downwards
a wind, gently titillating the languid trees
of this dense forest,the rustling of the leaves create,
an impromptu tune, proving they are taut strings,
yielding willingly to the sensual fingers of the wind.

Super moon,while raising, listens keenly awhile
as if she had never heard one like this before.
The wise silver owl, sitting on the high branch
keeping account  of every stroke of night,with an imaginary wand,
as the conductor, catches the emerging mood that seethes
within the million pieces of orchestra that gently merge,
get exhilarated, finds a pause to punctuate it with a timely hoot,
the moment freezes, falls in to the repository of time for keeps.

I enjoy, the subtle shades, connotation of each word,
probe, how dexterously they are put together in an order
like jewels in an ornament for generations to wear.
The way the construct speaks to the brooding solitude
that moves in and out of my soul,as the reading proceeds.

I smell a fragrance, like the scent of fresh ripe fruit,
eager to taste it, sink my teeth deep, draw juice,
now find a memory awaiting to resonate with the
cadence of my heart.
                                                 I am such an animal
that can smell poetry's worth from a distance,
a goldsmith who could  predict it's weight in gold
my avarice for a poetic diet, never dies, only swells.

Every poem of my kind, to me does something
my lover does, decidedly every imagery, carry forward
a memory, like wind a cloud, reaches a space beyond
touches eternity with it's magic wand,  a flash results
Even if the poet leaves me mid way, I'd still see the light.

I've an enticing excuse to imagine what I want to see
a poem doesn't produce anything,but what it does to mind,
is pure magic,I am in that flow,far from the illusory reality.