.
Sailor of the winds —
ruler of the oars,
what if breeze turns to ocean
rowing near the shores?
Absorbing what's left
for the restless high tides;
fresh smelling norms
of the modernized times.
Will the follies of the age
of the shoal minds drown
if the censures of the sage
can turn thumbs down?
Poisoned grave waves
with prickling embrace,
what if breeze turns to ocean
faking out its face?
—MLD | 01202021
YOU ARE READING
Artifice
PoetryMy question marks were never caged but they always find ways to conceal their images and trick the pachydermatous spectator with artifice. Maybe, certainty can be Socrates listening to the mixtape in my closet? Maybe uncertainty can be me withou...
