We articulate the definite,
And conceal our doubts, fears and anxieties.
The three musketeers that battle
With their muskets, on the inside of you.
You realize, the panic-stricken heart
Is a racy chamber, and phobias like,
Claustro-, Arachno- and Miso-
Are just your own concoctions, that nagging worry
About a poem’s eventual fate; whether it will see
The inside or be locked outside journal pages.
And in an austerity of good times
You wish upon a little resolution or even some
Correction fluid to erase or even forget the diabolical.
Each night I take all my troubles to bed,
And in no time I fall into a moment
That transcends time-trappings, and an earful heartbeat,
When I start to realize that sleep,
Is the perfect panacea, when you’re just as irrelevant
As every one of your three stubborn musketeers.
And still, it becomes rosier when you realize, there is the
Indiscreet wetness of dreams, the crispiness
Of how much love lives in us, as we sleep.
And there are no Arthos, Porthos and Aramis,
On the boundless spaces of the third eye,
Just a trigger happy rifle, in lock, stock and barrel,
Pulling a trigger, to be unworthy of 3 million head-strong bullets,
You’re making babies in your sleep!