The Poem Of Improbability

It could be worse,
I could be you
You could be me—
There is such mirth
In gathering girth,
You love too deeply
And I can’t love at all.

We are flying a broken ship
Plying a broken trade
One of us, I don’t know who,
Seeks an adolescent freedom.
I am a controlled masochist
And you are a bookcase;
Some days you are younger than I
Some days the ability to fly.

You are
Beautifully wound up and tight
With a reserve
May the suns’ preserve
That only honesty
Can bring.

I find I want
No part of reality
Just romantic delusion
To suffuse my world
Against pain,
I am trying to explain,
And life, and reality.

We should be china
A plate and a vase
In a flea market
Amid the hustle and bustle
The rub and rustle,
We should be Bohemian
And drink from the wounds of life.

Does your emotion need expression,
The words, a voice
The hands, a face
To deal with and efface?
Here is I
Semi-grotesque
The semiconscious self,
Your olive decanter, to banter
With.

Alas, there is a Great Time
Between us,
A deep ravine of exclusiveness,
And intellectuality,
That keeps us binary,
Disjointed, and perhaps, craven.
It is a great treacherous thing
Of shadows and mistrust
A monster of our fears.

But, for every shadowy monster
There is a cusp,
A hard intangible human thing
Between trough and trough
Thus and thus, pressed;
Like inverted hooks, each to each,
That gives me hope.
This is how, in my wisdom,
It is with some:
The ones that stay too long, that feel too strong,
That start to give.

Well, you and I,
What can I say?
What may I?
We could be comical,
You can be loved by me,
I can be loved by you,
In darkness and light
Sadness and plight
Under rainbows
And blue skies.

Time is the most important currency
My love,
And time will fly by in no time.

by Nakul Sood

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.