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.