resonance of reverberations: Diamond in the Rough

how immeresed, holed up in a lair?

the flower stands, lone, in a jungle

to disburse and be left bare

she waits and waits, and all he does, blow the bugle..

the world she could have, swimming by her ankles

what she chose, has left her arms in shackles..

The Poet

I discussed with a colleague of mine today, that since i joined the financial institution, i've lost alot of that which used to define me. The philosopher is gone. The poet, all gone. The painter, the musician, the singer, the contemplater, they're all gone. I figured that it was a form of premature mid-life crisis (which traditionally begins at 40), so before i start piercing my ears, coloring my hair, listening to indie music and trade the family car for a 4WD, i shall embark on taking pre-emptive measures to ensure that such an incident does not ensue. This blog is dedicated to poetry, and with an underlying objective: to keep sanity in check. I aint no gawky teenager and neither am i a geeky adult. I'm just weird and let's keep it so.