I draw a running time
Mirroring my face
Towards a broken space
Freezing my wrinkles –
An old age adage
I search the deepest treasure
Digging my grave again and again.
Stultified
I stitch my remains –
A cadaver for my own dissection
I war on my weakest spot
And win a loss
Comprehending the incomprehensible.
Rooted underground
I search my broken twigs
I paint the darkest colour
On a blank canvas
And hawk protruding night
to prey on my thoughts
with bristles in the air
A fine exemplar of this author’s inimitable poetic acumen. I found this very evocative of Michael Stipe’s lyrics for REM.
Original and striking imagery !
Tapeshwar ji,with your usual aplomb you have created cutting lines to create the sharp bristles in the air which leave reader marked with their nuances