By the time you realize that this is poetry,
you would be sliding into the
third line...
The fourth will whisper my deeds
perhaps the fifth will slide into the
sixth telling you of my expeditions
I have down caution to the wind to
reap a typhoon of curiosity. My eyes have
refused to be dim'd like the eyelids of an eclipse towards realism.
Things are happening and people refuse to
digest the meal whose aroma whispers to us about the mirage attire worn by hope.
Books of faith remain lame towards the dashing quests of hunger, poverty, social vices - It is always at the door, casting its fishing net - This apparition
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