Perhaps

Again the question
How do birds sleep
Do their bulbous voluptuous bodies 
Balance on their thin tiny legs

Because a huge peepul tree
Faces my portico 
And even at 23:50
Two birds, I don't know which kind
Are fooling around on it, 
It's their time of the night, perhaps

As it is mine.
My time.

Once a friend of mine
A very dear one at that
Told me, exasperated 
With hands in the air
That I have everything

I smirked at the fulfillment 
Of possessing everything.

Now, I feel, that
My friend has it all.

Again the question
Why are we so incurably unhappy then. Why

This poem, is an ode to the truth that I have been writing something almost each night now. Writing every night is either a sign of distress. Or contentment, perhaps

1 comment:

pSyn0 said...

Isn't it both?

Happiness is overrated and unhappiness, underrated. Don't you think? Look what it makes you do?