How welcome I seed the erring jive or the mind, like it’s ignorance halted in a pair of eyes. I humble the jumble – inane I do. Trying to deliver a stream; I could fool. It’s the change I wreck on the patient foot. Of the mountains, it trifles; maybe it could. The heavy heart sets a blue dot on the virgin space that heralds a sea of virtue and it stretches a flood’s gait. In all likely places, a forest soothes the figures; the dainty figure almost in misappropriation. The trial is too far; fetched from the furrows the trail begs. I differ surreptitiously and the mills echo a dry defeat. It’s the poor pertinence which peeks from the other side. I try to face the fish that stares through the rye. Fields have become a past to remember and the peace a bygone term to define the pillion – a wrenching route to hang the noose on.
Much said in the spaces which seed, the seer seeks a solemn promise and too it, it feeds. Hunger draws a parallel in my soul. A letter lights the throne and in trumps a stranger; the begotten befools the burial of the sensorial. The normal has lost all its cool and I’m survived by the delinquent, the quiet and the quaint. The struggle maniacs a minute and the next it soothes. What transpires in the ethos of the arrival reclaims in its jeopardy – a memory it recalls. Eggless and utterless, the enigma and the rote – the patience has a name to its criss cross roads. It says that it has found. The rammed, tamed in the fight are here to fall. They have their minds cut to gold and through they dice. How clumsy it seems. The second minds a moment and the moment repletes a lapse of judgement. Hums the channel sitting in the front room – a drone that daunts onto its own when it seeks to seed the seer through the door.
The sense has a rhyme and the sensible loses it in time. To find the beguiled, to find the belittled, the possibilities chain the loss in broken battle. The heralded arouse a clunk to boom. The battered believe they have nothing to lose. The deemed are there to surprise the pride. There are the losses lingering in the letters. There are poses in the pauses and the faults thirst to write. Coma undresses and undertones the line. Train touches upon the tone or the mind. It has its rhythm caught in a high. The derailed detail in the pause a worth a time. In all its query I have found all the wake, the deserted, the mime. The mime has a breath that believes the bafflement of the bereaved. The change has channeled a pathway that describes on point a pillion that achieves.
There lies a vacant truth sitting in my head. There a wild bush burns and inside an iceberg rests. The geared are gooned and the gone are bemused. The feathers faw upon the awe. Some times sake the person into his own deliverance. The heckled are attuned to the ruins, the rubble. Then jumps in the colour, all mimicking the eraser. The current bellows in its own tune. The heavier furrows into the depths of the lute. Finding yelps a grand too old and the hungover fetters into the whole. While peeves are there to undo, higher are the runes they can’t pursue. Gilded the guild crusts to crew, where the hearts are hued and the hides are true.
© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2017