The proverbial poet may soon be dead. He used to shape the time he got, but these days he is being shaped up by the time. He is in a kind of business he hated to be in. These days time has nothing to relent to him so that he figurates the clouds and paint the skies. There is a very loud cacophony surrounding him bewildering him day in day out. Another aspect turning dominant off late is the way he felt every passing second as a life time, has changed to months going whipping past his mind. He has started to fathom deep into ocean, gasping hard for breath with his nostrils full with black water. He is in some peculiar kind of unconsciousness, waked up with bloodshot eyes wide open, dreaming of savannah freedom and shattered chains. Each passing moment is making him even gloomier. His consciousness is off to a slow death, and he does not even know if he is feeling the death or not. At times it is like a spinning top and a moment later a life less egg shell after the life has left it. He could have long been dead by now but for this one feeling the tug of war is still alive. The phoenix is there under its ashes breathing and weaving the ashes into a new pair of wings, which will make it fly farther this time higher in to the sky.
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How?
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Watch out
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How?
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Watch out
