The Poetry Marathon

The city is reflected by the sky

in million fragmented motions

that spread beyond the limiting horizon

and wait in breathless apprehension.

I reach out the window and pull down the curtain.

Dear American,

the roads that had brought us close

did fork yet again.

Broken strings and emptied ink

could not muster a good bye.

Sargent’s Madame X is not just a socialite,

she is rather the embodiment of French aristocracy.

Pale as moonlight,

poised, brimming with dignity;

her crown is an ode to the huntress.

And yet, her dark and dangerously low-cut dress,

the accentuated curves

sing of a sweet and suggestive mystery.

She is at once formidable and submissive,

the tempest and tranquility.

In a caricature of life and all its ambitions,

he licked his salted paws and went into the funhouse.

There, he found new definitions and parameters

in the concave and convex exaggerations.

For little sparrow

my ventilator is home

and I its neighbour

Gorgeous.
Luscious.
Vicious
Callous.

Infinite space, callous, vicious grand.
Search and find, a gorgeous, luscious land.

Creaking

stall shelters against

the prickly rain, as

the swirling Assam invades our

senses.

A vague face peeks from the maze of mind,

almost distinguishable. I gather in solitude,

the golden memories of us together, fishing,

singing, and hours of storytelling.

Beloved grandfather, reminiscence is cathartic.

There is no respect for saviours anymore.

I was the one to push back the machines,

the one to bring freedom to man.

But alas! When you are portrayed

by Keanu Reeves of all people,

there can only be one outcome.

Ask Jonathan Harker.

Not to sound ungrateful,

but if only Wachowskis were willing to spend a bit more.

Just imagine, Will Smith as me, I as Will Smith.

Ah well, there is still kung-fu, I guess, and Trinity.

Oh, wait! There is not. We are all dead.

Ithacan scheme glints on Ilium shore,
sun princess warns that inside
Sparta pines for his queen.