Tap them away,
Exercise those slender sinews,
Rightfully yours and build
Them up for you to pick garbage up,
Adding to your badges of honour,
And shooting feathered arrows
In the air, a blindfolded game,
If it strikes a pigeon on the way,
The more the merrier anyway.
Use a microphone,
Repeat syllables on the radio,
And shout them in unison :
W A R R I O R S,
Electromagnetic interference on lips
Like an anthem you sing,
While Words await a voice to pick
Up their signal, dimmed.
Light a candle,
Exploit the wax,
Dripping, melting into shadows,
For its destiny must meet the dirt,
Step on it barefoot,
Molten wax won't scorch your sole,
And march on in the blind sunlight.
Stand up on a chair
Of oak wood that creaks
In memory of its sawing ritual,
Your head above all, fists in air,
Them four legs bending at their waists
Looking up to you, at you,
Estimating your weight
before the fall,
But let everyone see you brave.
Is there anything 'yours'
Except the name that you sign
After every hashtag that trends online ?
While
They settle on their own,
Ivory gilded ones of torchered stone,
Silent claps for your courage.
One hand sipping someone's tea
The other hand on a prideful knight,
Grand moves for saving the throne,
Your footprints on the checkered board.
Tethered to Them your loosened threads,
Push and pull,
You shout and shoot.
The battles that go on
Under the sea,
Without a war cry,
Shall one day surface on earth,
Drowning all your liliputian armies
In its submerged glory,
Who shall bask in it ?
YOU ARE READING
Handwritten
Poetry"Sometimes I wonder If this is how it's supposed to be Can I make a choice ? Or is it all meant to be?"...
