Collective breath catches in the stalls,
slumber fails to take its place in time.
A fall from place to chaos
leaves all the world wanting for a reason;
for direction in the midst of this waning
of the reigning control of the conductor.
Such a careful composition,
to hold a position to be one of them.
And yet, mere moments gather a chorus;
a cacophony of freedom
of being
to crack away the chaining,
the tiniest twinkle of the cage door a jar -
such liberty.
And the fight waits in the wings.
But oh this fluid reality,
a magnificent rainbow,
a glistening roaring waterfall
a melody sung sweet of its own accord.
The conductor listens
and breath catches in the stalls.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!!

I will burn every holy book I found.
A page where the rights are not same,
Once I looked at the woman,
She is not just pretty.
Woman...
She have breaking heart,
She have air soul,
She have a beautiful mind
She have respect too.
Woman want peace,
A face or a paper moon.
She is all alone from the beginning,
She is lonely, all by own.
Why there is violence all there,
When past have only scares.
When the history says about night.
A woman said, give me right.
There should be a heart,
Full of lights.
Tell me a name of that woman,
I will give her my heart
She have place,
She have my piece of this world.
One day, world will change, a woman once will say,
Before was was was, was was is
Why you are living in this world, without the eyes.

By Vedanta Anagha (Mayank Tripathi)

The living reality of a metaphor, almost every ounce in-taken,
Every nuance, every pronounce, measured, weighted and weighty,
Fluid or firmament, each encapsulated, prior to release, scaled,
Tabulated, ordered, noted, recorded, and ultimately judg-ed.
Totality of it all, the varied quantities of the ingested nutrients,
even the forecast of the future, if every day was a metaphor for
like today…

DO

I speak of the day's headlines?
Of the quantity and nutrition that passes through my lips?
Or
The surround sound of the surrounding sounds of this day,
the flocks of bandito geese who exist only to torment,
the landscape working crews, with their tools, like a 7::00an wake up buzzing about, for the entire street, going house to house, looking for itinerant grassy knolls of patches of bright green,
overnight sprung up and needy to be
guillotined,
laundry to do, rugs needy for clothesline screaming/beating or merely super fast vacuuming;
they, hawking their skills available for the old and infirm,
or the fatty catty cattle lazy, (somewhere in there is moi);
and the decibels of their machines, the rat-a-tat of their rapido, voluble speech that feeds me poetry by the ounce of their laughter, but more exactly of,

What do I speak, to what do I allude?

Why all and none, everything and specifically nothing,

for the metaphor is meta! (1)
It is life itself, from the quarter teaspoon
to the overflowing bath, it is life at its most incremental,
the moment
of flushing face,
the second
of ah ha! recollection, the,
long term trends
trending,
the flatline of my EKG,
the weighty pronouncement of my talking scale (you've been bad),

IT IS THE EVERYTHING
that is measurable, weighable, isolatable, defined; 
it is our existence of our each & every of action and inaction strung together like a necklace and a chain

We are metaphor, reality, is, the script,
which is the product of you.
scriptwriter…/