The Triangle
In front of me, the smart windmill,
turning obediently to Aeolus’ authority.
Behind me, the wonderful sunflowers,
shimmering passionately on the green carpet.
Above me, fervent ravens,
aiming for the limitless sky.
Standing at the base of this triangle
I knew I had to follow
only one of these three routes:
either turning the turbines of the present
to grind the past into oblivion,
or striving to shine in this green jealous world,
or reach the stars by surrendering.
I decided to toss a coin.
Rashness
water splitting into dead drops on the sink
obviously it’s to stop and think
I often behave like a living liquid drop
on the sink of demanding life
I want to waddle up to the end
to the end of the end
for the beauty of life is chocolate
sandwiched between baked flour
rashness is like dancing
on a rope of fire till fire from below
burns fire and the ashes of both fires
are sealed in the envelope of failure
there’s no river of rashness
in my once baked veins
Aged 27, Amit Parmessur has been writing for the past 8 years. He has appeared in several literary magazines and ezines including SHALLA’s Magazine, The Short Humour Site, Orchard Press Mysteries, Postcard Shorts, People of Few Words, Long Story Short, Eunoia Review and Burnt Bridge (forthcoming). He also secretly feels very close to the land of his ancestors, India.
No comments:
Post a Comment