A Poet’s Palate: Blunder May Blunt, Never Blind; Wonder May Warn, Lead Brittle But Never Leave Bitter

Figuring out my words from the brochure lying off the ground of a bazaar, a little up in air, off the tusk that holds the next rhyme from a herd of the SaySpeak indulges a feeling that deep down dulls any secrecy. Finding out the words that seer across the soul and play with it to tarry it along on a wayward journey turning it into a serious lapse of judgement helps less but forgetful as I am, it does remind me the leaning of memories that go on to be fruititious are generally etched on the wrong wall. The mirror of mind sees and seeds an alimony of its own presence, somewhere too obscure and somewhere to here. It validates and vilifies in a single tone the time of a life. Yet, to fumble away and close the gap of known and unknown damages a nerve in the body and it produces laughter as its result and a smile that lasts as long one finds his humour in shape.

 

A body must be in shape; humour needs to be a rumour that one cannot figure. To look for it, the ocean can settle on the beach and send it’s waves so that the whole ocean can empty itself by the coast. Whatever wears the woman on the coast, the boast of having found her pearl somewhere in the lines of Leonard Cohen, Rumi or Rimbaud rhymes away whole life a rumour that cannot be settled. Who believes in stuff where the figures fiddle their drum into the non existent word that is hidden between the verse of the poet.

 
A Poet’s words reckon a reality that rests on the staggered minds – one that has beautifully begin to carve out a flavour that flatters into a nothing. Then it forms a little later and you can then see something. It happens in a second or even shorter. When the words produce a rhythm that oscillates in your mind and finds the fiddle you’ve been meaning to play in the time of abundance, it means the chord has stuck its grave, in that it has found its resting place. Arriving in its toil to tarry you, it veins to envelop more than envy to upfront you into believing in its beauty. The spare week you can find yourself faultering across it where you would be. It is like flashbacks. It keeps coming back. And every time, you come across it, it’s a whiff stronger, like burning inside you, taking a ragged piece off you and giving you your own best flavour.

 
The satire seeks a redemption and the title teaches a temptation. Without all of this withering away from all of that, it trickles a tune to layer the lid into oblivion. To begin to comprehend the shutters knocking over the pledges to do the undoable and then throwing it all in your face to a plebiscite where the truth matters little but what goes in your mind – a bare body lingering on the edge to rectify it own magnanimity by throwing the doors open to words and phrases of jogging memory to Shatter away any means you’ve preserved to avoid the end of the world. Presenting to you, you at your own pace bringing to knowledge yourself to taper away any insecurity you’ve garnered that may away bolus the palace on the hills you’ve planned.

 

© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2017

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