My squares have rounded corners: A poem 

I had a visage of age flying with ease through my window 

Yet, an illusion could correct itself through experience 

The shower of cotton flakes could have been deceptive 

when early, I dreamt; but sooner it became crystal clear 

that a pain of a responsibility was to be a burden of a shadow 

But I could feel the circles of humour taking the fire like a walk 

of fire-eaters. I could feel smugness in the belief that I would 

manage the confounding echoes between mountains. 

I did. I smiled through the tyres left punctured from cruelty 

I didn’t banish the prospect of cataclysm; it helped the chrysalis 

It was fate that carved my stone, my soul; as much as I engraved it 

You can say that hope still surrounds like a penumbra; while  

the umbra is a harsh but exquisite lesson. I am not at the end  

of my journey, yet. Though its length requires the patience  

of an island that took aeons to be discovered. I feel, 

I am in a dusk of realisations, but not in death; suffering 

has enabled  me to see the squares of my corners as rounded  

As if grace has helped me to flip the book to its last page 

and still feel youth’s pulsebeat with growing age