PREOCCUPATION WITH CHORES
I am a poet of the daily chores
delicately balanced on the beams of
is and what was.
Etching jagged patterns on paper,
composing music for the soul.
In the distance I hear, the sound
of a beautiful scarlet awakening.
And a rose blooms in the garden.
I write when the world sleeps
and sleep nervously when the world awakes.
And tomorrow if I should pass on-
these my last words
will dance on your lips.
When evenings of doing nothing arrive,
let us then get back to the dusty way
of putting misery on paper,
such that none but myself
the tears caught in the lines.
I see the best version of myself in my dreams;
and in moments when I shut my eyes close
to escape this throbbing world.
She is tantalizingly efficient
and marvelously sure of herself.
She wears her inadequacies
like a soldier proud of his battle-scars.
She comes to me in my reveries
and smiles a forgotten smile.
For my part,
I long to be like her.
Sometimes, I see her astride a horse
the wind in her hair and serenity in her eyes.
Some poor soul she will rescue.
Later, I realise
SHE is my redemption.
She will indeed rescue me.