And the world for you
doesn't have any particular form.
No face that you can recount
and rant later on.
Twenty odd people and
That's your world.
And only anecdotal evidence
in bits and pieces, that you exist.
There isn't a let up from things
and each day a surprise springs.
And like an impossible promise
I am kept aside to dust and miss.
Peels of know-how of this world
dawn on me as the time is whirled.
The more I scamper and scrawl
the more my mind has to crawl.
Grope around for the switch
and get a shock without a twitch.
Of this world, there is a form in mind
to which almost always I am blind.