Riding a mulish horse
Arrogantly unyielding,
Though fed and nurtured
By your own hand and passion.
A compeer in the long road,
Hardly compassionate,
Barely listener,
Comparatist in the looks,
Superlative in behaviour,
Is like crossing a northern storm,
In swimming wear,
Is like crossing the sea,
On a surfing board,
And yet,
Decorated with your best hometown landscape.
It is like crossing the desert on your
Onewheel-Pint-Electric-Skateboard – Sand,
And yet sand is one of its components.
It is like a boy,
Riding a flat bicycle,
For 20 long and slow miles,
To pass his exam.
It is like a gorgeous girl,
Studying a lot,
Working a lot,
And yet, she is fixed in beauty and use.
It is like drying the water of a flooding sea.
It is like continuously watering the desert,
Waiting for your tree.
Too great to overcome,
Admit your defeat,
See it as it is,
Insuperable,
Insufferable a ride.
Others cannot dream of more than an easy plate of rice,
Wait for their series,
BBC’s Harlots,
To be compassionate,
To ride the ‘unknown’,
To devour the harlots’ flesh,
To conquer and possess
The innocence of virginity,
Preserved innocently for long,
To be sold in a fleeing minute,
Shivering
Quivering
On a master’s table.
The defeat has been always the same,
As death,
Forever,
Insurmountable.
