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Blue Collar Twister

Sweat tries to swim upwards through the hairs

of a labourer building the statue of the herald

but fails and falls in the soil sucked up by heat,

vanishes as a struggling animal in quicksand;

Dreams drain and entity turns into fossils as slippers

walk over it.

His weapons are a chisel and spade;

He lifts them to protest but vacuum wailing in the curves

of his muscles makes it fall again on the mummified ground;

just to dig, dig the ground for

the Herald's statue must stand firm

or his existence will be buried under its

falling weight.

Toils will evaporate with the smile of the moon.

The dawn will hear sounds again-

sounds of iron striking against rocks.

The air waits to weave those sounds

and strike a twister with them-

Tall enough for the world to see

bold enough to step over mountains

Clear enough to show the waving hands

begging a day out of slavery.

Poverty of screams

In the tattered parts of the hand woven fibres

naked poverty of screams

amid roaring drunk waves of wine bottles

whirling in synthesis with partying proverbs

echoes against posthumous walls

to add the colors to a faded terrain

sipping dripping sweats of a dead beat life

which has spent decades to get up from work

to smile at the gone days.

Foliage and twigs rejuvenate themselves

with the waters discarded out of the musical chair game

with splashing music dying out

in swimming strokes of fatigued hands.

Each day swimming fog blurs smiles

Crawling clouds dance with tears

and changing seasons paint poignant outbursts

yet the little life left in some corner

takes a swing in the estate

where a Rolls-Royce warms up each evening

and Rolexes add motion to stillness.