L. B. Mek

I sit wingless, gliding Within: instinct’s breeze

There is a path 

cushioned, upon nature’s scales

calling - while shunning

narrowing - while blossoming

with each passing Spring;


which birds – chirp, with such stifled falsettos

fleeing within manic off-beat flaps, 

what unyielding grip tightens from so-far – a reach

to choke-out: such a rasping mauling of daybreak’s ease.


Reminisced, peddles churning with whimsies abandon

circling, true freedom’s gigantic yard of childhood serenity

faster, at every turn as-if attempting to encircle

Time-itself, wrapped in youth’s laughter cadence: endlessly.


I sit squirming, fending-off ambition’s bite 

cracked fingers – unshackling, anxiety’s oppression 

of invading foreign distractions


open a page, begin 

incomprehensibly sparse abstracted, scribbling

of uncouth feelings 


hurling, frustration’s drafts to binned obstinacy 

sporadic meditation, enlisted as inspiration’s entreaty

until galvanised to try: yet again.


I sit, stilled 

mind\'s aimless wanderings

take aim 

at a new canvas 

less blank 

than others of its kin, 

ignited fingers


to trace out and give life


to these: here words

as testimony 

to us few, lost 

to Artistry’s 

treacherous fellowship of anchored - floating, 


to survive

our voracious passions

all-consuming waves.



© L. B. Mek 

June 2020