Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Silent Bliss

Shush.

The silent is oppressive.
Embellished by the sullen despairing sun,
The yellow fecund ground
Lost its utmost sheer of bravado,
Rendering the streams to loneliness,
A No place for the fantasy land.
Still,
This is a silent bliss.

My strong legs marched enigmatically,
To their combustible home sweet home,
Outmost; cunning, innermost; dulcet,
A monstrosity of haven, off our imagination,
Still,
This is the silent bliss.

Children dashed, the men relieved.
Joyous force fortified
The greatest camaraderie of strangest love,
Shinning the smiles of naives
To see their “Santa” came true.
A pen and a paper,
Supplant the moment
Of simplicity to complexity
Yet, still,
This is a silent bliss.

The network hand greeted,
With genuine wrinkled of tiredness
Only replying ,
“I’m in good fettle”
The only self-denial option
In the barren,
Arid earth of silent still.
The preamble of the ample life
Superfluous, they need no more
For this
Is the silent bliss.

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