I do it best, when I do nothing at all: A poem 

To walk in the haloed streets of recall 

To talk to strange angels over the wall 

To drink sweet nectar from an empty cup 

The wisdom of words written and rubbed (out) 

To cook more rhyme than reason on the fire 

To make logic of needs, not ensnaring desire 

To open the window, at night, to starlight 

And wrap the soul in linens that are pure white 

At his hour, the clock melts with the heat of selfless dreams 

Its seconds and minutes are minute as leaves 

To read the knowledge of ancient libraries like a breeze 

And have divine mysteries embedded in mind’s crease 

Or would it be apt that I touch a magic lamp 

And have a genie stepping out to amp 

wonder in everything that is my camp 

You know that justice must leave its indelible stamp 

Yet, I listen to raptures of spirits in intercourse 

turning to a telepathy of euphoria in discourse 

I am a veiled bride after a long patient nuptial 

And I realise I do it best, when I do nothing at all!