Tuesday, November 12, 2013


late morning in an artist's studio
half-baked clay models looking back
blankly at him as he browses through
a pile of thoughts

life is a rusty iron door
with squeaky windows that greet light
through moth-holed curtains

in his share of skyscape
he can see rabbit clouds at play
which makes him envision
a youthful grasshopper
leaping with verve from autumn
to autumn

once in a summer's noon he indulged
the whims of an Aphrodite

a mocking smile reproaches him
and he returns to the doleful hour
as he swallows the bad taste in his mouth

no locust swarms
nothing more than a helpless gaze
of Hephaestus in the mirror
one who hears none but his own hammer
in the last tinge of spring

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