Count them

The farm implements rest for the night
while the cattle in the next room stomp about
trying to negotiate with sleep.
But this room, around me,
is filled with people
now lying down
only to tackle the tomorrow.
Reality has its gashes on everyone here.
Violent wrinkles smile at me in a faint light.
My mind attracts a mob of thoughts,
encircles them in a halo of memory.
Suddenly around me are only bodies.
Organisms breathing in and out. 
The conscience has left them now.
Too deep a sleep for anything.

I count them, relate to them.
These threads of many stories assembled here.  

The third eye

The third eye in first person
writes about solitude
that churns the loneliest.
It pours out human suffering
far away from the epicenter.
Sitting between bounds of comfort
it coldly expounds on uncertainty.
And it's the only one that remembers
the flash mob of moths
and an occasional attack
of the garden lizard.

Elsewhere

The chances are slim
and the situation grim.
April is back.
Cruelty out of the shack.
It is afternoon.
The trees stand still
put up a brave face in the sun
while the sea prepares the breeze.
Pens slip out of sweaty palms
and write whatever pleases them.
A thumping heart leaps out,
paints its relief all across
an easy question paper.
The mirages clear out.
Evening switches on the breeze
and suddenly we are elsewhere.