STORY

Story then leans forward to foretell, 

The mere glimpse promised to rewind,

The ways divided to consummate hell when own mirror betrayed the fulsome glance.

This seldom reached its desired Camelot,

She daringly sits with no edge to let.

She often puts up a face of honour,

In the morning when dew dispels,

It was for the drops of sun to whistle around,

Walking in the evening when it fades.

 This creeping claustrophobic culmination 

Flooded, still roll on to be parked,
Though skidding the ear-marked destination,
The fuss goes on like this to pseudo style.

I remember the past of wild hunts
when it was too easy to escape, 
when the holy basil surrounded 
the memories of many,
when I fiddled with my own map.
The day of moderns began
with the mighty shapes of alphabets,
the digits grew more dominant than petals,
Turned with these all, I join the rats.

In the race of recognition, often I come across with verve,
These fissure and yet I crave for the phase when all was abeyant,
That tranquillity, I address and eyeteeth: the fountain of this face, 

Still I dream, I chase.