He was anxious to rise to the surface;
they were talking about the future of
a hyphenated man.
Family was memory of moon.
A bare-footed journey, the bleak map of life.
Up and down moved wheels of time, in dark
alleys, virginal prophecies, scorched
sureties, redundant sentences.
He was in search of a spark
full of prudence without proxy.
No imitation. Monument must be real like an Aurora.
He softened up to self with age
with care for water and air. No exotic
theme interested him. A smell of dread
always haunted. Like a full stop.
Truth of ‘I’ was very bitter:
Liberation came by astringent integrity.