Tuesday, July 10, 2007
As if you have to stand amid
A myriad of storm waves–
As if you have to pause the air-
And bellow invisibly clear.
Then, the calloused motives of–
right and wrong– drills a hole–
at the temple of your pickled scruples.
And you heft– rustle a misty breath
As you palpate the white washed doubt
Attached with your virtuous demeanor’s clevis-
And you smile– another guise- another felicitous life.