A big red box, my suitcase, tucked under my bed. Is the box merely a box? No, I’m afraid.
Bearing throws, bearing blows, bearing scratches, sporting patches. Generously forgiving, my wheeled travel companion, emerging to unite with me on the conveyor belt. Passing through dark x-rays, scans and scrutiny, yet preserving my harmless secrets.
Impregnated by elements of my identity, without which I’m bare, Stacked with my casual wear, party wear, foot wear and my inner wear. Along with my gadgets and my books, my paper pad and my pen, My big red box with a hanging tag, bearing my name.
My friend familiar in unknown land, stuffed with my memories and possessions grand. My big red box is not merely a box, But a collage of myself, at the reach of my hand.
Unthinkable. Lithograph of a malaise. I cannot talk. Will you abandon the thought and care about the drowning dawn? The bandaged ego of the book threatens the reader. Come and solve the puzzle of poetry. Everything was quiet except the
Within the imagination I am content to live This is my stay I see how plenty, how ever-expanding it is The ‘All’ a rich array Of ever-rotating colors with which to paint And never fade away This is my stay
I mawkishly effeminate sentiment, memories plucked from wood and field merged in a sentiment of unutterable sadness and compassion microscopic minuteness of eye, misgivings of grave kinds mockery crept into your tone, molded by the austere hand of adversity moments