July 2, 2014

<i>July 2, 2014</i><br><br><br>


by Umm-e-Aiman Vejlani

Dull light of a dank day
swept in tunnel shape
over the desk of hunched,
haggled hands marching
across a white sheet;
writs platooned in warfare
egged on by a commodore
positioned stiffly
upon shoulders of a minion
mind, cracking its whip
like a professor’s goad
on its blackboard of mastery.

The hands would beg -
without having to bend –
one would wonder
if the fingers prostrated
from age or profession,
bones jutting mid centre,
skin gathered in frills
at the phalanges of its craft
blistered blue, in evocation.

The whip worked
its employed purpose
to add fuel to chugging,
wheezing engines
of inspiration;

yet, words did spasm
over the blank treaty
deviant of legibility,
fingers moving dutifully
to the commodore’s lash.

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