In Search of Excellence

The reluctant minion has tears in his eyes.
And a grimace on his face—
   He has he been crying...
   Or... Has he been laughing?!

Blind to his torment and predicament
   the lordships roar timidly into
   the imagined horizons of gold and glitter.
They ride on shifty waves of delusion;
Powered by gusty winds of arrogance.
Self-righteousness is their only map.
And the destination, a vague presumption.

The minion surveys the flagship and sighs—
   Where are the oars?
   Where is the rudder?

A Hustle Amidst the Bustle

Life―
Is a tussle,
a hustle amidst the bustle,
of alternatives and choices,
made worse by
oxy-morons and paradoxes.

A trade-off―
between pros of this and cons of that;
between cons of this and pros of that;
between the safe and the right;
between bank notes and sleep good night;
between what they say I ought to do,
and what I say I want to do.

But I am not one of the fighters;
Just an arbiter of destinies
of fictional characters.

Let me retreat
to the refuge of the world
of make-belief and rosy tints,
of veiled protests and subtle hints,
of safety of my family,
lovingly, warmly and cozily;
Where courage shakes hand with prudence;
Where ambition makes room for convalescence.

Life is a tussle,
a hustle amidst the bustle.
But I am one of the fighters
who armed with ideas and characters
wage war against might and muscle.

The Great Promise

On the infinite beaches of life,
along the vast oceans of time,
we're boulders of our imaginations,
but grains of our decisions.

Little Men

Dreary dystopia and despondent chance
        siege me from all sides;
Miniscule men with mammoth shoes
        stomp into my cube;
Demented dwarfs with duplex heads
        butt away my scrolls;
Lazy leeches with large mouths
        suck the life out of me;
Machiavellian maggots do a manic dance
        and eat the insides of my head;
Indignant inferno in incandescent rage
        come rescue me to cinders;
Fearless phoenix with felicity and grit
        rise gloriously from my ashes.

Yep!

Yep! Wipe that sweat off your forehead.
That is real real. The only real.

The road behind, a trail of flummoxed dust.
The road ahead, a mirage of unreal impossibilities.
And all around you, catch-me-if-you-cans of
all things dear to you,
Poof-poofs of brick, metal and flesh.

Yep! Wipe that sweat off your forehead.
That is real real. The only real.

The Crushing March of Inevitability

The earth was pulsing in an uneasy rhythm
I could hear the distant thump of time
As I lay splayed on its barren path
Waiting...
...waiting for it to overrun me
The crushing march of inevitability.