An Ode to Nothing On the road the morning besoms hum Horatian odes to the leaves and blossoms fallen. The night passed belonged to a storm. An ant leads and follows, the marching of one. I know what these remind and I cannot recall. A car stalls at the red; no other vehicle rolls from that side or from this, but the signal stays static. The First Blood You will not realise the first born, a river with two blind ends, spreads like a lake unless you fly high and see the body of truth with the drone-eyes. He opens the door for the house. Others have so many chores. He grins, welcomes the folks visiting and drips his shoulders when winter ebbs, and the gadabouts become only the feathers they leave. He is all our mistakes while fishing for truths. Beneath his rippling skin lies desires died and secrets jettisoned. At night he gurgles, "In me my father sleeps with a stone chained to his neck." You shiver. A swirl of fireflies ribbons the gift of darkness. You Know These Are Questionable Truths I told my friend Amit, I forget what I write. Once a reader queried why I wrote some lines and I vivisected my love like a critic. That night we strolled into a fort for a drink with a stranger who would declare a no-man's land between us, shoot-at-sight later. Did we? Perhaps I fake my life, live the lies, forget the creation and believe tales as truths.
The author of ‘Postmarked Quarantine’ has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of ‘Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages.
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
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