A curator of freedom

 

Honey-dipped,

Dripping with grace and glee,

Almost a rain of sweetness,

Full of sadness and beauty,

This tiny grove dripping with

mystical indulgence and pleasure,

Shaping its own self

for a better world for others.

 

Here my frozen identity,

—curated with fear-born care—

starts twirling with a buzzing audacity

to dismantle the tiffin tiers

of honorific geometry,—

a tiny stack of food for the

little caged beast inside,

And throw it away

with a ballooning distaste

from the edge of the dark pit,

Meanwhile, cheers erupting

from the unchained soul.

 

Here just the smile of a flower

has the power to turn one hopeful,

Here one need not hide oneself

in a corner

so that guilt won’t reach,

Luminous streaks of some warmth

touch the chords of deepest sadness,

mellowing all arrogance and pretention,

pushing me out from the darkness within

where I’d disappeared

and couldn’t find a way out.

 

What a great artist it is!

Stripping all falsehoods of their varnish,

Leaving them naked to the core.

 

Beyond the debate of

accidental or created change,

here the giddying fresh air

fills my lungs with freedom.