Futile entreaties: A poem 

Let them bang on the walls of the corridors of my mind 

Let them repeat, and repeat again and rewind 

I have no knots in my locks, no scallops on my toes 

To their entreaties, I have the choice to shut my doors 

Wary, self-aware, a bull knows its own ideal fare 

All that glitters is not gold in the store of Chinaware 

The grass is greener within the soul’s own frontier 

Slippery ice doesn’t daunt the able mountaineer 

In the mirror of the conscience, the reflection is lucid 

The blood of integrity is not mere watery fluid 

The mists dissipate, there’s no debt’s scrawl on the slate 

The walk to the destination has the quotient of fate 

I have saliva for bargains, and for the proposed reruns 

I had dark days, but the soul has its own survival’s guns 

They can come in turns, and come back again in turns 

My hope is a resilient fire, but it is their hope that burns