Syrup for the Selfishness
Mysogeny inks a link with the pastness.
None swipes the cartels of cautious pessimism.
Festivals of future monopolies oppose the world of boundless love.
I smirk at the doves of peace, shuffling now and then to squeeze the ripened mangoes.
Bamboozled to sink in the tyranny of reasons, astrologers melt in the motionless monotony.
Creepers stay away from the trunk of the Peepul tree, climbing ahead of the waving meadows.
I mind my mimes to spell the dullards of wayward wisdom.
"What makes you a blissful magician?", asked my nephew.
I spin on my way to daydream about the losing messiahs of selfishness.
Limestones lie bare with the blues.
The shadows of the doomsday hang over their heads.
Life is known to be a path of light for the poets of prophesy.
(Copyright: © Mangalaprathaban Muralidharan, April 22,2024)
( ® All rights reserved)
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