The Choice

 

The ideas all lying
A mound of flour
Ready to be kneaded
Rolled, flattened and fried
But I doubt my sighs
May blow them away
Into the thin air
The earth-quake of dilemma
Threatening to loose
The nuts and bolts of every joints
And the bones want
Liberation from each other
Shoulder’s cracking sound
Deafens the ears
I must work on this flour
Lest they will smudge
The face of sanity
With their fungi grown
Fingers and toes
The train running behind
The intuitive track
Makes sound horns
It cracks the building
Blocks of confidence
I must work on it
No more wallowing in
Gloomy vales
I must work on it

 

Sarala

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