Chikram: The Insane Wanderer Poem by babitha marina justin

Chikram
the one who sounds the drums
in the ripples of rivulets,
wanderer,
walking the streets insane,
untrodden paths
haunting the dark sinews of night
daring the formless, headless sprites.
he hides in the bushes near my house.
in his mutterings
he spells my distortions
my tangled thoughts
begging admittance
to his own mirrored-self
he bangs at my door.

once, I saw him grab
his crotch, his intense
glare scattered
women in fright
with a few vulgar jerks
at the fleeing humanity
he guffawed like a king
and walked the roads alone
searching his groins
muttering outrageous
secrets to his self