The eardrums buzz
With the cacophony of bottleful of cicadas.
Dusk fuses into twilight
For the birds to return home.
Mere occasions
Hold the spirit and tantalize
For acutely brief spasms.
For crying foul
The winds stroke the trees,
Gently, first
And then vigorously and cruelly
To stupendity.
Defending the ghettos that
society has come to.
Literature in many tongues
Attempt to be naïve Justicia’s pages
She, now extolled in street-side fountains!


For want of tomfoolery
And native buffoonery,
We hold our souls on mortgage.
So our futures are secure
and our pasts as obscure.
Seasons alter the mindframes
and you are you, no more.
More or less,
neither am I.

Without Notice. 19th April, 2009. (20:32 hrs)