Thursday, January 2, 2014


However hard we weep, scream and yell
The ones who determined to slip the grasp will slip
Break away, fly and trick.
Have two distinct faces
The one that smashes the bones
And the other that simply scoffs at its fragility.
May be it’s the victim
Whose vision clouded and clowned
Because for some
The ways of the new men is uncomprehending
They simply don’t fit in the new men context
Of digital texts, life, morality and love!
They are the yellowing papers
Waiting waiting
With single lines, margins and book marks
Sniffing flesh, blood, poetry in skin
Thickly sorted like in a red pomegranate.
Only to be later torn
Or eaten by moth
Or thrown to flame
Or to be ashes along with a sewage disposal
They are seldom toxic
Unlike a digital explosion!