• ___7___ 5w

    In the front row
    Of life
    Death sits in the middle .
    On the left sits
    A young man
    Cupping the edge
    of his crumbling poem
    On the right sits
    His grandfather
    Too old to be rewritten with a closure
    And much cataractous ,to be read

    The bell cries 'alleluia'
    Sporadically slow
    And every time it does so ,
    Death looks around
    for a gateway
    But the young man shoves it back
    By his karmic arms
    And the old blood is immovable enough
    To be crossed .
    As if a carcass of stoned history , an aeon .

    I know from the gifts of ancestry
    That end is the only possible seat of death .
    So when I see a crowd
    Blocking it in the mesial ,
    I doubt the ancestry , at once
    Next, I doubt life
    I doubt the crowd
    I doubt death
    I doubt the young and his old alike

    So at the edge of
    I sit to write and find
    I jump, hop and ask in shock
    What's wrong . What's wrong !
    And, you
    What are YOU looking for
    In these
    Woods of scattered alphabets
    The only tree that's branching here
    Sceptical .
    Just sceptical and nothing else.

    _7 (Basics)

    I had nothing to offer to anybody except my own confusion
    ~Jack Kerouac

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    Come with an answer next time, Oh Visitor !
    I've enough of those hopes looming in my storeroom .