how feeble one may be
to be a captive in someone’s heart
tone a curtsy with their toes curling
and play a puppet as the fingers strum
the dreamy chords of their discretion
or unfettered may one be
free to flout or flout so free
like antibodies breaking the jam
can I stay without a command
now habituated, and play my part?
©Written Frames, 2020
often do I look up,
behold beyond my vision and height
teetering trail of hallucinated,
heedless of the feet stiffened
walk of the terrestrial trammeled by traps
notice not the blood and bruise, such a façade
for a fantast willing to assess the skies
vigilant to the wings, I’m meant to fly
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
like a child
with a virtuous visual of everything
feasible is all, not timid to overthink
flapping the limbs, cape of certainty flutters
leaps forward with a swing, and slips
the fall of the persistent, dust off the cheeks
ready to leap, back to his feet
thus pitied, the mother’s rush to rescue
she signals to the scraped knees
now he weeps,
dousing the hiccups of dreaming…
©Written Frames, 2018
The more we claim to be rational and wise, the more we are calculative of the fall; reluctant to attempt for once more…..
nobody is right, nobody is wrong
in the wrong, we find right
and in the right, a wrong
rippled in mirages is morality
a fallacy adorned with adulation
the far we have come, where
everybody is right with modest wrong
pure is not pure, but adulterated
produce of over-trodden land
infused with sweetener and pest control
adulterated is new pure, a new want
ample fruit bearing of modelled green
so sweet, so delectable
PS. If not poetry, what else will qualify to refine the effervescence of wandering thoughts. The thought of good and bad is perennial and keeps you in loop forever. I wonder if to do wrong is a new want, a new desire, adapting to the rainbow of attributes that a heart casts and breathes perfection to survive the modern. All white is outdated, when we have all the colors to play with.
We are neither right, nor wrong. We are right in wrong and wrong in right. We are adulterated and it is the purest form of us.
©Written Frames, 2018
Pic credit goes to my dear friend Diana. Thank you!
receding waves vowed to hit
seashore rimmed with onlookers
impressions of steady feet are moist
earth of my body powders and slips in
from the earth, to the earth
circle of living profuse in pavements
fragments deposited with flow of time
a new arc, a new phase of life
a sediment hither
I settle here for the time
©Written Frames, 2018
Who wins, who loses
Would never been a question
If not an effort put in picture
To alter what is forever
And always
Conclusions change
If assumptions revolutionised
©Written Frames, 2018
Confess that bed bedeviled with lassitude
Encumbers the body rooted to ground of ash
Procession of the soul harangued to death
Thick ropes of hair sprawl on the cold limbs
A strand swells and strains the lips, says “sshhhhh . . . “
Eyes known of crime are shut in its cavern
Strangulated expiation of the forlorn heart
Venomous claws of the constant, infuse all blue
Specked and tattooed with the dark and sewn
Blackmailed into surrender by the fear of fate
The will is murdered, robbed you of your spine
Curl up into bull’s eye targeted by flawless time
Crime is not to have a life
But have nothing to live for
©Written Frames, 2018
Written Frames 
You must be logged in to post a comment.