Treasure Island

veeraiyah subbulakshmi


What is your main job?


You have taken that tool,
To peel my heart to view my goal,
Grade after grade, the number speaks wild,
The fumbling mind, not on its true self,
The horses, donkeys and mules,
Waiting under the desert sun,
To view the clouds that gather to run,
If at all rained, where is the grassy fun,
The sand mine and yours hot and spin,
Even the mirages full of waves,
Can’t paddle our little boat to travel,
Across the poetic desert of ocean,
Oasis in the middle, fiddled with wind,
May be reached posthumous podium,
Witnessed by many spirits of great poets,
They have suffered in insufficiency,
When they have been alive and vigil,
Words can’t feed the mouth,
Words can’t wipe the tears,
Words are not read when one is alive,
Poets and writers are cursed to survive.

Submitted: Saturday, July 20, 2013
Edited: Monday, July 22, 2013
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