Whir

I'm the ocean in the drop.
I rest my head on sand's arms.
Blowing a conch,
Into the chaos inside my head.

My Story

I'm here. I'm there.
I see myself everywhere.

Again and again, full in all the fragments.
Never broken, not so still.
A butterfly in the caterpillar's dreams.

Stealing, running, growing lean.
Becoming all I could have been.

Whatever I touch turns to tin.
In this world of hate I believe.

In a tub I swim like a fish.
In the cupboard I breathe like the sky.
And in my hands I die like a fly.

Destiny's Boundaries

Here, where the horses graze and the stream makes its course known,I find freedom. In the lap of the green pastures and mystifying unknown banks, pebbles rotund where the water's passionate kisses lie ample. Like ripened, luscious fruits, sons of the sun.

I meditate, under the halcyon shade of the leaves. Self-possessed in bucolic ramblings.
I make love to my spirit. Slowly and languidly. Planting one kiss at a time.
Elated like a fickle, little butterfly, I surrender.

What an orchestra nature is!
The leaves, the song of the creek. Chirping and buzzing to make me believe.
Solemnly, I visualize the distinctive line between the sea and the shore. Slowly fading. Talking. Telling stories of those that strayed its path, some plunged head-on, suavely some floated alone. The water drank up their stories but the shore stored them, carefully beneath the pebbles.
The crane dips its beak, to quench its thirst. My thirst for freedom is unquenchable, its depth feverishly imaginative and arcanely unknown.
Solace
Under the cranes wing I find thee.
In its flight I find me.
I'm free.

MANAGERS
Interpretation is a product of experience.

Nature TO Me

I am not a colouring book. You cannot fill me with the colours of your choice.
I am warm and gentle, so much so that I carefully melt flakes of snow, one each at a time.Though I garner great strengths of destruction, I seldom use them. I devastate when my gentleness transforms into fury, then these innocent flakes of snow suddenly become murderous storms.It is a reaction to a very malignant syndrome.

I have recently developed the H.D.D. or the Human Distaste Disorder. A disorder born not out of a deficiency, but out of superfluity of a commonly found being.

Its population floods my body with trillions and eats voraciously into all my resources.
The common symptoms of this hazardous disorder are:
The sparseness of my dense green grows and the parched-ness of my flourishing fluids.
Black vile, wisps of smoke suffocating me and chunks of waste, white and stretchable,choking me and throttling my soul.

Tolerance gives up on me, and I vomit my fluids, sometimes I cry and whimper. Then further and further I melt in agony.

Now the chaos has completely deafened me. The smoke has completely blinded me.
Yet they do not hear my plea.
They play. They pirouette, triumphant over innovations; unaware of the inevitable devastation they invite, their end and my cure.

Literary Spurts

http://devangini2.blogspot.com/

Spools Sanguine

Unwinding,
Some here, little there.
Yellow aspirations,
Green flush,
Mellow mirage of dawn.
On the carpet of faith.
Flowing yet bound.
Subtly sanguine,
Squeezed until last.
Free but not,
Until I'm woven into a single form again.
Back to being human.
Faraway from liberty.
Hopes tied to my ankle.
Back to dependence.
Wretched to human.
"So called" sapience.