Till the Hour

In the glorious blur

The sounds muffled

Are not,

Thoughts run one into another unceasing unstopping

And the throbbing is

Palpable and crude,

Empty creases abound

Their wholeness needed

And yet unfilled

Remain,

The left and the right

Look both the very same,

Other vestiges

Come back to trouble

Or to comfort

But who can tell the difference,

For, stealing a heartbeat

And a smile or a tear

The ongoing merges and cleaves,

While the gnawing

Cannot be satiated

Or even so

Not with its most sublime,

And in this form

All clarity is and is not there.

But then

In the middle

Of the lattermost

Those forces regroup

Fervently raise their wishes

And search, ask, want anew for more.

Thursday, February 18, 2010