Writer’s Grief


I guess there are too many of us,
Like prawns in the ocean.

Every prawn has something to give,
Not just a little curved body.

The crust is the skin deep,
But we are deeper, than a water well,

The roped buckets we send,
Down the lexicon well.

We are all crustaceans selling our crusts,
Dreaming of the hour, the day,

One can embellish a large dish,
A stage on its own merit,

A journey, of being sold by a roadside,
To the center of a porcelain enclosure.

The once prawn, now the vital statistics,
Of a giant lobster.