Echoes in My Hearth

Look within: the man is his inner self

with beauty and home of its own. All done

your romping days. It is time to face home.

Neem trees fed by your placenta are gone.

Where abides freedom but the secret tome

of memory. Plainer than a peasant,

but, as if guarding vaults of diamonds,

stockpile your memory bank with pleasant

and priceless gems. Fools, rogues and vagabonds

feast on the less of the unsifted life.

The gardener calls once a week; the maid thrice.

Microwaves do the rest. Trap-saved from mice,

velvet vies with velvet in your closet.

Yours has been the gilded life, till its sunset.

Friends are few. Most took an earlier flight.

Of the rest, none has a sorrier plight.

Sons and daughters, nephews and nieces phone

to apologize, yet again, for sudden dates.

The rocking chair becomes your princely throne

and little boys and girls your fleeting mates.

Only your pet dog lies, here, time-keeping

with its tail, as you hug your knobbly knees.

Hyenas' breed grin and circle, peeping.

Reflexively, you pat your heart, purse and keys.

Nights no longer bring peace, nor sleep repose.

Tears would be a blessing, but thirsty eyes

do dirges for terminal things compose

Whom can you command , but your bankrupt I's.

The dearth, blight or flight of inner beauty.

Proclaims her wooing a sacred duty.

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