it is winter where this poem points,
& just off the ground, lust of living,
the world felt & the depth travelled
cries at powerlessness; those inches
are a lifetime, the linear fall
a glass rod to bend & a fusion tube
with somewhat soul in it breaks
as the poem crumbles & we run
sucking, downloading, stuffing, smoking
the lines that were & those that
could not be; annoyed at the
incapability; mull over the ease
& finally smile at the joy and all
the cage doors that it throws open.
~Ajay
16/7/19
YOU ARE READING
bliss station ~ poetry
Poetry~ where is your bliss station / you have to try to find it ~
