Another poem I discovered in my Gmail drafts. Writing poetry can be cathartic and therapeutic. I must have written this poem in anger probably more than 10 years earlier. But in a strange case of deja vu, I can say that it echoes every thing I feel right now as well. History keeps repeating itself. Some things in our life are eternal circles, turning and twisting in the spiralling gyre.

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An acorn of scorn

Rolled gently down the mossy

hill of contemptuous soul

marred broken bracken

heather of the mind

turned into a

bed

of careless words

turn the emperor’s hands

who dwells not

on the present but future

future past is present

all a chaos of the midst

of an eagle’s eye

in which storm lies

the din of fate that clasps

destiny

mocked through words

shorn of meaning

trembling I stand

against the sea that life

whips across the saints hearts

can I turn the clock of time

through the wands of these words

pained in the midst of thorns

that lie in the forest that settle

into the bog that morass

called called called a

person I knew

to be only my soul