Metal Yard

You look in the mirror
And the youth which galloped past
As white-water rapids is now idly swimming past
Curving bends and meandering elbows
When you can taste a whisk of brine
From the distant estuary
And in this space of ambivalence and fear of the great unknown
You have one hermitage – a place that stands cluttered
Yet beautifully assembled like a mosaic painting
And that place is seemingly
Like a scrap-metal yard
Fetched by bulldozer neuron-cranes
Filled with recyclable scrap metal.

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