For Gandhi, The Mohandas

What end is there in my obstinacy, breaking the pliant with my insolence;


Lashing on the dead skin, there is no blood;

But there is a screech, a silent wail, in those wet eyes, in that brittle voice;

A trembling hand reaching out to a closure, though inhibited by a benign petulance;

Do not accuse me, I am an idol, an axiom, a providence, a prophet;

I am not hollow, but brimming forever, I am not dismal, but a frail fervor....

Fragile

Dazed was I, looking at the blinding aura of the black night sky, lying on my back tethered to a recluse, searching myself amongst the myriad those glittered.


Dazed was I, at the soporific halo that shone around my dreams, crashing yet one, subliminal like a wraith smiling at me from an intangible distance.

Dazed was I, from the beclouding of my eyes in the wake of the silent glory, brittle and simmering, in the tepid touch of the environing blaze.

Dazed was I, watching the immiscible spectral cavort of an invisible danseur, from cold to warm in a warping inanity of draping skin.

Dazed was I, praising my own frailty, collapsing onto my own volition, imbibed whole into my own softening singularity.


Dazed was I, at the egression, gloating onto a diminishing trail, a scent left floating in my withering dimension.

Congruo

There was a sea in the middle of my bosom, ebbing and tiding within my dead spaced blossom,



A sequined death to the glittering fate's denials, dividing life into mere conforming trials.........