The Wrinkled

On my terrace,
when I sidestep a crater,
and walk to the west edge,
I know I let hypocrisy survive,
run its course,
and feel blissfully immortal.

Who craves the sun more?
So I walk;
they needed a leader,
and you, dear friend,
needed a freemason to pour
grout on the cracked, wrinkled floor.

Floor?
It is the roof,
the one destined to leak,
drip, drop,
and a river cried by
a poet of very little means.​

-- Leslie 

​A ​Fever​. The​ Fervour!

The still air,

hot, dry and dejected,

reminds​ ​of the fever last night.

Where​... when,​​​

in a mindless act of restlessness,

the citizen, a protagonist,

took an umbrella,

stood on the terrace,

and sang the rain song,

cried for childhood!

It was windless even then,

but the trees swayed,

a ​dance, ​​a trance,

to the tune of

amendments made in haste,

in hatred,​ ​in ​​apathy​... 

Oh, the fervour​.

Fever it is​,

in ​the many shades​ of skin,​

​in the diverse ​layers of nationhood.

-- Leslie Xavier