T H E W I N D M I L L

Churning like a windmill does…
Silently, and passionately and
Subtly doing its bit…
Huge, and forbidding, such is The Mind…

Like a busy trivium, hordes
Of thoughts and plans to do
Barging through the crowd, but never turning to leave…
Making tighter an already tight spot

Like an artist’s piece
The canvass displayed for all
But only sporting what he deems palatable
To the many prying eyes

Or, like a pen-man
Jotting only the sane figments
Of his mind… forever hiding
What really haunts his soul

The gay hues of the solemn nights…
And the noisy tantrums of the mum…
The graceful flight of the unwinged
And the wisdom of the doffed

Like a steel trap, and a
Granite vault…never ever
Letting the thoughts trickle…
Like a deep, empty well..