“This is getting harder now
I’m tired of trees and air and water
I despise nature as much
As it has abandoned me”
My belittling smirks anger him
He returns to his pages
For a bit and then his despair
Comes forth and submits
Beside the small blue lake
With white pages strewn about
His eyes towards mine
And my lips parted in speech
I remind him about
The Red Wheelbarrow
Just before the final grind, I
A blunt edge on a dead stone
Embellished the last hours
And savoured the thoughts
Enabled vicariously through fiction
Do you see the caveat in his eyes?
I don’t and thus I sit beside
And watch him drown
His things in the river
See how that rivulet goes forth!
See how it cuts through the rocks
Abandoning all it once belonged to
How much courage would it have taken?
His hands work wildly
Till his fingers can only
Flay through the dirt
And then pause at my shoulder
There is that caveat again
His eyes betray him
I see it now
You should stay away
At the behest
Of a few wise men
Our air and light
Now pass through a sieve
That took eons to perfect
They dwelt on each opening
On each crevice’s use
Altering their shape and size
And monitoring my each word
As I devoured all that slipped through
Now they treat me well
For I am still of use to them
Each day, many come to see
The result of initial imperfections
And feel grateful to the wise men
Amid cheers and taunts
Of oblivious onlookers
The hunger artist honed
An obsolete craft
They all waited, but soon
Tired of waiting
Urged him to speak
And voice his cares
He – having nothing to declare
No grudge or whim to propagate
Stayed silent and watched
The voyeurs drift away
Leaving behind an elderly man
“On which day are you, my son”
“Thirty six sir, with sufficient strength left”
The old man sighed and sat before his cage
Together they waited for the voyeurs
Until they crossed the fortieth
And then walked away
A True Sentence 