Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Morning SIckness-

Silhouettes of the brutal aftermath of our progresses shine
as rains and green grasses are buried into the corners of unknown
and our windows draw illusions of grandeur

We do not look at starry skies anymore, here
for our homes open to the mash of streets and to other homes equally abundant
we move around the same circles
empty faces, isolated walks and random meaninglessness

We do not hold onto emotions
or winter nights
or summer mornings
or metaphors
we live in our comforted nests of concrete
we build walls
we are good at it.

And faraway there are thatched roofs and mud huts
and broken toothed happiness
and mothers who stay hungry but content
and fathers with torn pockets and soiled shirts
and dreams of two square meals

Amidst them lies our broken civilization
and a tinge of blood that spreads like wildfire
where concentrated money and fluid souls breath in peace

And amongst those differences I walk
where there are gray-black skies
and far too many faces and all expressionless
there are no voices just growls

I see men, I see machines
I see smiles and polythene words
and it all makes sense

They ask me
have you stopped writing poetry these days

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