Call me from the high throne.
Make sure your voice reaches me on the phone.
I'm not hard of hearing
but I do like for sound to seep,
and to penetrate
real deep.
Drop your string of yarn
in cascading fluid curls.
Pour that viscous mix
up the chute.
Shoot your bull's eye
at point blank range
and fill up the space
with neurons
that sparkle.
Twinkling eyes, they see,
and gleam in my sockets.
Gleaning data packets
osmotically and
gravitationally.
PRemise: my name is Mihir.
Powers latent in me
suffer silently
in a self-imposed state
of dormancy and sterility
due to a diffidence
born out of their being stationed
in an unviable, hostile environment.
I don't feel kindred with my co-fauNA.
But rest assured, O Conscience,
that I will succeed in persuading
you to seek and find your fulfillment
in your lot. And if you cannot
give up your asphyxiating obduracy,
I will create for you
an environment you will be
enticed to blossom in.
No comments:
Post a Comment