Since loneliness is step-motherly

There is no pot at the end of rainbow

All those colours

Musty and faded

Are ragged siblings

Showing rage aloud

In hollow rings

Darned oh so many times

Seams cracking

In drizzled downpours,

 

But, to narrate this story

Would wreck even

The purest of souls

Fond of evening tea

And canvas like skies,

And so the half-baked lie lies not in the story,

Of anxious lonesomeness creasing pages

Harking lonely anxiety,

 

Instead i concur

That anxious anxiety

Need not dabble in last names

Since loneliness is step-motherly

To all miseries

Produced and canonised,

 

Even if the cushion were

Deflowered

It wouldn’t stop being a cushion,

Whether placed below or above

cushioning space and time with generosity,

Perching mendicants may

Wallow in its presence,

But, the brick is not

Where I wish to lay it,

 

Instead,

I couldn’t but wonder

That this or that,

How does mind

Reveal mind

If mind does not mind!

 

The cacophony, of course!

Sweet memorable cacophony!