Stupid one

Brother, Brother, you might as well paint
a big white x on his back:
he’s up for the usual ambush
by invisible bullets of Mnemosyne
whatever he has said & written
no one remembers O fatally forgotten.
Why continue with this wicked pace
Early morn there he is with the pen
& bond paper to record what he dreamed
of fever, ghosts, the footloose women
all the unspeakable that Time brings
Who cares if one’s in imagined pain?
Yup, yup, he’s target for paper assassins
No one would bother, it’s all & nothing
People shall carry on with busyness & whims
It’s his own lookout, who tells him to blink
think of him who labors through the night?
The world would live on, mindless of his flight.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s