Contrition for the recorded events of frugalities.
So abstemious have I been, thriving largely in
Defenceless glares of the four-eyed.

Now I have learned to creep alone and weep alone,
Closing tacitly the chapters written in mundane ink,
Reluming the smouldering logs of long slumber.

I have told every truth in loud moments
Now I have only but few lies in my saliva
And I intend puking the remaining few . . .

The pulp and the reed among the wayside waters
Must have tilted in the direction of their winds.
Bloated and deflated, this ego of worth, crimson
With the bath of birth.

Rebirth, woven in colourful Renaissance yarn, has awoken
The drunken somnambulist
The pipers come piping hot, and the stolen trumpet,
Hidden in the soft crests of wisteria,
Alerts the souls of the roosts.
I crave the creation formula of the Sixth Day.

The sage among us have broken many books
And licked many paintings —surrealism —in the
Image of the contorted face, writhing in the throes of
Elevated glances shelved in the mirror-images of Knowledge.

Could there be comeuppance for inquiring into the deep?