Tuesday, December 15, 2009


The fifteenth, the Ides
but in December here.
With rains and signs
of the ominous;
indeed, the old soothsayer;
true he has always been.

The man's words forged
during a wild fire within.
It's not the starved acidic gut,
but from the quilt,
woven out of thy neighbour's follies;
talked in the net, in hushed tones.

His words stopped me
for months here, till
laughter took over
from the lay-out chats,
touche, toast and the vibe,
after the afternoon swipe.

Beware of the Ides,
not just of March.
For their straight mane
is crooked enough,
to twist your tale
during the judgement days.

1 comment:

valsala said...

nice.. very nice