Man often writes a tale
and relates in bits
as if joining of limbs picked up
at random from an operation theatre
where doctors conduct autopsy,
and dissect each part
to initiate a new experiment
as a stepping stone to a prize.
It is searching auxiliaries
to institute an enquiry
and one cannot pin down a culprit,
because a signed willingness testifies,
and it frequently permits a surgeon
to play with the patient.
A mystery haunts a man
as he wishes to become complete
questions, ridicules and fragile wits try
to make a full man.
He continues to touch sky thus
and the height remains elusive
like flowing water he wants
to hold in a fist,
Or like a pinch of salt falling on earth
he does not desire.
In the process, he documents
a life scattered in tiny requests
turning to imagined legends lacking basis
and so he lives in trash and side issues,
burying past contexts
and then tentatively resolves
that he wants to create history,
but falls as bulwark of life caves in,
and so he lives in failure tending temptation,
a man learns nothing in varying milieus
and anonymity lays him to rest
as posterity ignores essence of age and truth,
even as probing turns redundant.