Sometimes I'd sit idle and chew on food for thought Many would line up but sometimes it's all draught. When slice of life seems little elusive Sometimes cogent sometimes more allusive, Happened and happening would oft put me in a quandary Though hopes would then do a bit of emotional laundry. Food for thought would still remain ungrounded Uncharted, unchased, unlanded and unfounded.
Sometimes I'll muse on which way life is going Are we really living or simply growing In size, in form and also in years? Grappling with highs and lows Paddling along with weal and woes Struggling between tears and cheers Getting over the inevitably-destined blows Ever chasing that's going far instead of close Eventually assuring self that life thus flows.
Moments of desperation would divert me to myriad of literature Where Hardy, Dickens, Whitman and Wordsworth's Nature Ignite in me a faint flickering passion. Pope's satire, Hardy's Wessex, Joyce's Dublin Hamlet's inaction, Eliot's ideation Byron's aggression, Dickens' compassion Suffused with beauty and felicity of expression Give me the impression that I've finally caught Much coveted food for thought. And thenceforth, no more foray into fleeting poetic oozings Drop the pen and call the song my Meandering Musings.