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.