Farther down the road….


There is little beauty in the mind.
It is a warehouse of orphan thoughts,
Run by a hefty matron brewing leathery
One time rotten meals.


One-track mind of a calendar year…
My mind is a dejavu of fixed income
Sincere meanings and added values
I am a warehouse of broken panes
I have been thrown stones at
And compensated with disabled
Bank statements, junkets and happy
Jars of certificate of merits
Made of tree cut papers and your delusions
And my laughter or fatigued farewells


Nothing matters inside your mind
Anybody and flesh, any body
Any any one, any somebody, anything
Any me, and you
Any any any
All all all…


Another me will come along
And make me give up my mind
For it.


And still I will remain
In solitude
And a prisoner of my minds
Helplessness without me…