The Snake, The Red herring And A Ramble

It is strange how free one is

when totally bound 

Feet and fingers working on

Unthinking

unfeeling

unconnected beings

oblivious to what the rest is doing

Time defeated, curls into a corner 

no longer willing to wait the night out without sleep

Morning comes-a mechanical being with a huge flashlight 

Muttering about loose ends and trailing ribbons, 

Its windmill-hands, trying to wrest back undiminished, unfinished urges into the caves they inhabit

-those overpowering night flowers that burst into hurried bloom from all over freshly washed bodies behind briefly closed doors

Fingers work away

alternately pulling out weeds from the overgrown garden in the blinding sunlight between monsoon showers

and clutching at tufts of thick hair with its defiant roots 

drowning either way 

In grass or in desire

Pointless to talk about freedom

in a poem that stalks its words hungrily 

craving endlessly an elusive ecstasy

– a silver snake in the golden corn

With each rambling verse, the snake glides into fields yet to be ploughed