A Supine Adventure
The swell of womb and breast is half human circle;
On the crest of the grave's rise reclines the other;
The grave-like the yam - mound is earth's pregnancy;
Life like a dance swings in circles.
In vain these needles cast
its web of slow fading ambience - lights out,
A noose luring consciousness
to the calm dirge of silence.
My eyes recite the chant of global aphasia;
perhaps in temporal permanence, Forceps negotiate
with the diplomatic lump on the 45th avenue of swelling;
numbness never came, never tried to, never wanted to.
I need not relate how noxious to me - a cuisine- to digest
For so gory a tale it’d be
from the adventurous lips of a bard,
hoisting this tale from the oasis of memories.