That morning mentoring – to me,
Once upon a time- when I’m your son,
Was just a baby schooling,
For now, I thank you,
In today and its fruition,
Whether it’s just suspect
Or manifests at all,
Without my asking,
There is welcome on the door,
On faces, feet, rugs, walls and curtains,
Which speak about dwellings of bodies.
Yet at Horn-Bill Hill nearby, still pretentious teeth
**** chins that die of pain, fret of sense-vity,
Even Deers of South Hill village,
Compete with this gem,
Will those two find an escape route?
With an array of A.W.O.L’s for you,
So many meanings and beamings M.I.A,
But the irony is here,
In the Centre of this mammoth city,
Where I found reality,
At least I saw you.