1986. January 09
Living and breathing at the narrow outskirt of the hinterland
Pictorial acumen lost under the poseur of one’s nightmare
You escape into your dreamland
Figuring and calculating
If thy countenance is prepared to see those images what mortals situate themselves.
I scanned the horizon and to my amazement
I saw the mirage of dreams long forgotten and thrown away
And my knees buckled in and ceased to be
A fledgling running away to the direction of the cushion
Stand and see
Broken relics of promises and dreams
Passions spent for ingrate persons
Worse is the time that flows aimlessly, spent on faces that do not move or feel.
Let’s run forthwith to the cushion
Where hearts don’t absorb the impact of disrespect and pain
Where love is not unrequited
And the hour is not the tyrant of time.