VERSE.

I wasn't sure of anything when I wrote this. Thought I had it done when I rode back to my room, wishing to flush it off my mind, onto here and for all I know, I might as well have stopped with the whole thing, deeming final that which didn't even make it to here, but something didn't feel right and I couldn't possibly have gone ahead with what didn't appeal even to me, that's a disqualification at first level, a debar. And then this came along, unintentional. Iced-punch over a furnace, and I thought I'd take it, for I'm burning already.

Inspire within, an inside sight
from myself to myself, a window:
an 'inside in' for outside view,
an orphan gift of escape route,
of citizenship of world bereft,
of sunshine, oceans and buckets in red,
dripping of this melon slice,
on featherbed tongue
with my nose on my eyes.

I was delighted when I was done. It's the sort of delight that engulfs when you had no idea as to what you were doing when you were doing it, and when you liked what you got when you thought you were 'done' (although you would have had no clue as to whether you were really 'done' when you thought so). If you do not empathize with this scenario, then find and replace 'you' with 'I' in your mental word processor. I'm sure it takes lesser time.

On shallow convention, and law abide,
'unrest' is my word, whilst you belong
to dream, to sleep in world of song,
where rugs are warm, rags in knit,
thirsts all quenched, of fires unlit.

This fits too, strangely, and this is officially what missed out, being an entire mismatch in intention and purpose, it was an aberration for sure. I wanted this out of that document.