Let us not tempt fate,
For she makes a bad godmother,
To children born out of wedlock.
If only you could can your
Barbed wire branded humour.
It claws me like a lusty cat.
It is of that self-pity that I write,
That shallow tenderness,
Some of us call it love.
The flowery sandals and scarred feet,
They make my self-image.
Mistreated witch of inverted priorities,
Realising the wrong things,
Thinking them true.
Time running out,
My cake slice lies foul,
In company with other
Culinary experiments gone bad.
Hard, tasteless and out of shape.
Maybe a skilled chef can render it tolerable,
That is my only piece, my last.
Trying to imagine,
That when gone, my near and dear
Will be in a room full of light,
Knowing everything there is to know
In a cosmic jiffy,
While I pine on in a sub-deathly ignorance.
Could I turn my mind inside out,
And see the insides of reality
Or truth or beauty or love?
If I can think of them,
Why cannot I see them?
Or is it that I am a creature
Of shallow sensibility
Who learned by infra-experiential rote,
These ideas passed on in indifferent print?
Yet, I am human.
There has to be a continuum
Between the lowest and highest,
Somewhere to be sighted, isn't it?