Geriatric

Gout torment  the geriatric

leaning on his walking stick

strained by a tottering pace

his back bent with years spent

the grey locks has its tales to tell

and the wrinkles on the brow

his shadow is a mere specter

of the frail frame he wears

bereft with the failing senses

he dodders on in senility

reminiscent of his salad days

beckoning from the yesteryear

He treads on his final leg

down the life’s last lane

cold hands

never to fall apart

for aeons to hold your hands

and  now your hands are cold

Nonstop

Busy!
We are 

hard at work

for ever and evermore

The hands of time never stop

The wheels of life must run

on and on

at all times

in perpetuity

from dawn to dusk

from cradle to grave

pursuing verities

of sweet nothings

A paradox

of life wedged

in the coils of realities

We scurry on

till we exist no more

Poetic parturition

In the familiar urges of the mind
the musings of my heart tweaks
from the slumberous thoughts
that often evade the pensive vent
shapes the melody of the words
woven in eloquence of expressions
of rustling leaves and chirping birds
the unsung melody of wind chimes
the unchained beauty of rainbows
the crush for the charming face
the pains of the broken dreams
the joyous moments of happiness
and the saddened verities of life
vents out for a poetic parturition