A Waking to a Folly of India

Cold, likening to a snow scarf
Chill rising over a nightmare morn
Envy, never smile,
Innocent only when we can dream.

Feeling bogged,
Choking, under rising slurried waters
Patience ebbing like ancient sandstone
Insulted at your thoughts and perceptions,
Who do you think I really am?.

A hormonal wrath for merest second slip,
But for what meaning, for which end?.

For the subcontinental dog of the slum?, the bi-product of wasteful castes?
The silence and vitriol belays the majesty that is claimed.

At this fountainhead, a brave new world,
Sun blaze, rain haze, can’t find a home,
Even in this; a human heart, a capsule for a soul.

Sitting through wet night, haunting
Detour through my thoughts
Wandering to yours,
Thinking of destroying our distant maternal huntress.

I feel our days running away like a wild mustang over verdigris hills.

I tore my self, tiring, the attempt to work, to be who you wish, we and I want.

Where is your thought?
Where is your Buddha heart?
Where is your eternal soul?
Can it?, or do you want me to find it?.

We are human, all too human.

Ian V. Seymour ©2012

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