Turning clean sharp edges rough
as do the mists of passing time,
their tiny drops adorn my coat
with shiny crystal beads
as delecate as frozen rime
and small as ripe pearl millet seeds.

I wipe them off with hands grown rough
hunch my shoulders to belay damp chill
then quietly cough to clear my throat
as if it's clogged with swallowed tears;
take a deep breath to steel my will
while standing in this wooded place.

The sun shines with broken seasonal rains
Besides, the wind blows on, all the year round
Carrying with it soft sounds since silenced
From the mouth of one who was first to speak
Harvested crops found their way to stomachs

Through the filtered nature of tinted self
Draped in a cloak of grey on smoggy screen
The protector of sacred scrolls dictates
I fight to transmit with quill pen and ink
Jotting words with difficult maneuver

I don't have a pleasant voice
so when I attempt to croon
the result is far,far from a tune
but rather a croaking type noise. (first stanza done by Stan)

My notes aren't always balanced
they're either sharp or flat,
but I don't give a jot for that
as I'm by mood influenced.

Some while ago I wrote a song,
I called it 'Song for Jenny'
but my doubts grow as oft plenty
that to her my voice won't ding dong.

sleep-work, work- sleep
days drift
immersed in a void
of sameness

mind tires
concentration slips
reality tips
the hologram quivers

an insubstantial shimmer
reveals a glimpse
a glimpse

but
with only the tools of the mirror
the soul cannot grasp

time melts
as rain and shine, dark and light
slither past
on the way
to future ennui

and
the illusion persists
.