There are traces that become trickles.
There are amorous eyes who sculpt innocence
From soul-to-soul interfaces. 
There’s a worthy life-smith in every trapped soul
Life will always be a cancer of the breast,
A beautiful one at it.

There are offshoots of flesh
Near the Irrawaddy, rocks that will
Never gather moss, tumbling along
Conservation corridors, flood gates open,
Learning the strategic art of survival.

While a few hundred miles north,
Massive “white elephants” in heart cages,
Live mightier than bullet-proof gods,
Preserving hate, that cumbersome
Emotion, that lives larger than anticipated,
And is difficult to dispossess.

And through these blankets of mists,
There emerges the true elephantine – courage,
Little bodies that resist the status quo,
Making jungles their own orchards,
And a small clearing, a makeshift camp.

And life is, just a chambered engine, that supports
A journey, one second at a time.
Made to believe, that in this bleak land,
Hope can be real. Resisting nature,
Just like dead poets once did, in their time.

And if you listen close enough
Through the palpitations, you hear
The endless cheer of “carpe diem”,
Murmurs of “seize the hour”
Spurring on weary feet,

To claim the windfalls, of the incumbency,
Of carrying beneath a bony cage,

A mercurial sound box.

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