Glass Bottles

Glass Bottles short poem

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Egos, like glass bottles,
Always on edge;
Of precarious ledge;
Into a thousand pieces break when touched;
Prick and poke the puerile mind;
Until time heals the Bottle, and
Back it goes to the edge.

Man, slave of identity: glass Bottle;
Unlearning, Bottle always on edge;
Pangs imagined, hurts he suffers;
Anger, self pity: fruits he reaps.

Place the Bottle so high,
None can touch, none reach;
On the highest shelf
Of the Self;
The Bottle out of reach;
Peace and harmony reap.

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Jayaram Haravu

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I am retired Information Professional. I live in Mysore. My last position was as Senior Manager in an International Agricultural Research Centre called ICRISAT near Hyderabad. I have been consultant to Unesco, FAO, IDRC, Canada and to a few centres in India. I published a book of short stories and poems, titled, Eavesdropping. This was published by Partridge, a Penguin company. I am married; we have a son who lives in the US.
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