Saturday, May 12, 2012


The bat wings of my mind
scribble things in the dark.
All meanings hide
and the hunt is on all night.
They still see the light of the day.
My poems.
But skip breakfasts.
Have bad stomachs.
Take siestas like the elderly.
And stretch out like emperors
on the cusp of a coup.

When they do return
to their original unfinished forms
they are without their belongings.
I bear no responsiblity.
And the night barbarian starts again.

1 comment:

Avi said...

:) I was thinking of writing about 'unfinished poems' for a long time!
You've snatched my words !