He keeps me shrouded in shredded pieces
sprawled and reclusive and momentarily
locked up vanishing in mediocrity.
Like someone who is afraid of the sanity
and Charles Dicken’s tale of two cities
and I never get to understand Virginia
Woolf, why her heart cries like a wolf
in the night longing for words as
earnest as Oscar Wilde. Dorian must be
some kind of lover of self and boisterous
as Ernest Hemingway. Not in the league
of imagination pours in my cup of tea.
Blood of ink flooding in my desk.
Days and days of wandering and wondering
where the words hide in the curtains.
That great expectation.
Lucky is Jane Austen for she can choose
not to be shrouded and shredded but
privileged unlike some Emily Bronte’s
Heathcliffe who tries to redeem romance.
Some hearts that pound in the will of the horse
and to kill a mockingbird of Harper Lee.
I hope to catch the rye like JD Salinger.
Solitude Amidst the Maddening Crowd
Hames 