A mill on the grind
Like gashes in the shingles
seats this heaviness on my mind,
hole up in the lobe of thoughts
a glossary of self in the face of fairness
a myth of a man walking backwards
Like a reed drifting in Sahara
to the dunes of lost memories
crawling in sparkling moments,
this body frame tucked in the scorch of fog lights that pelt strains in the eyes,
arms rested on the rostrum of fame
fingers snacking on half bitten apples
a well scripted speech sprouts out of a tongue like leaves in a well-watered garden,
a slip to the backstage in the midst of men clothed in debonair aloofness
your life is an oceanic archival past
bearing the scale of thousands of moments in lonesomeness
these tongues are rural in taste
balls of bean cakes on your ashtray of gifting
the smoke filtering through your nostrils
you reclined in your thoughts
poking each plaque on the shelf for your literary merit
your adeptness is a mill forever on the grind
the embargo on the ambit of your ingenuity
aired with perfunctory platitudes
but here you are, laughter in the cleft of your cheeks,
it is all a myth,
the fear,
the tremor,
the frills of tomorrow
and the roars of darkness in the tusk of time.
