Torn between compulsions and idealism
I lose track, thinking of one
doing another, leaving both halfway
I attend to another duty, more or less
dancing to the circumstances.
My garden best expresses me,
once a semblance of Eden gardens,
appears parched, with unkempt grass
flower beds stand without flowers.
These happening more recently
I turn into a bundle of contradictions,
thrown out of gear, I delineate
a Hamlet in character.
I sound alien to me, My orderliness,
discipline are things of the past
I remain confused, terse
animating the quixotic in all its guise.
I look at my driveway, Abounds
with thorns and thistles, leaves
and twigs lying in heaps
rotting in decay.