Theme: Self


It never ceases to amaze me how
all things manage to be said and done,
personally, collectively, now
realised even as this world of my own.
Most evident in the world of opinions,
they quickly dam up, they invite your own,
your own engulfed, but you passing on
each time, significant in mere continuance.
This is nature’s trick, to give due salience
to each form, a speck of dust in its motion
achievement, a reason for its existence,
a galaxy of stars makes no promotion.
Under the appearances of congestion
and complexity, simple is the present;
all powers in heaven and on earth seem less than
where I sit, all apart, I hold position.
It might be in less happier times, in exile,
conflict, or bed-ridden, made blind
or lame, or disaster zone where none smile
even to hope, death and beyond, I’ll find.


More By  :  R. D. Ashby

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