Troubled sighs repressed, by lips
that are meant to give voice to despair.
And rage and anger lie impotent
at the gateway of my mind.
a fog blankets the path taken
and the destination lies hidden,
in mists of fabricated conclusions.
Forcing me to wander aimlessly.
Various prophets philosophizing,
in the recesses of my brain,
justifying every action taken,
after the fact.
A new direction today,
forgotten tomorrow.
Pulling me ceaselessly hither tither
until divided I am as the fog itself.
A new direction today,
to pull myself back together,
from the mist of misguided actions.
A new direction or a new misty tendril?
Inqualabi-Banjara 