Pieces of me
A bohemia of unabashed colour, on walls, on clothes
The decadence of exotic silk, eastern, striking, brash.
The hoping-to-stop-time red shoes, forbidden red
The height of the heel, the inappropriateness of it.
Countless trysts with discipline, will power and Nike
Cut short by sloth, despair, distraction.
Love for a city, for independence, for growing up,
A big bad city for making money, for living, for loving.
A million words, good, tolerable, plain bad
Can't-stay-away-from words, not-enough-time-for words.
Kitchen creations, wholesome, soothing, happy-tiring,
Pleasurable from some deep primal inside.
The living in hope, building word castles in the air
The fear, dismissal, dissatisfaction all a part of it.
Tradition and its visible cloak
The flowers and the gold, the rituals and the roots.
All a life unaccounted, formless, everyday ordinary
Floating by in some mysterious significance, I hope.
