My anthology has no quietude in its (disparaging) disparateness: A poem 

I collect my flowers in random methodness 

like an anthology with assumptions 

of disparateness; not just assumptions, 

but, sometimes, pre-emptive conclusions 

How did my refrains sound different 

at every interlude, like a poem fraught 

with its own contrariness? Even repetitions 

and alliterations being discordant! 

Even a paraphrase lends to the confusion 

Everything with parenthesis is confrontation. 

The poem doesn’t die in this bequeathing. 

It mobilises a war to enforce an immobility 

of sorts. It is no idiom of idiocy, but  

poses an unbending question that challenges  

history to event a new episode in its progression. 

I have no accolades for pretentious unison 

because it only manifests the hypocrisy  

of convenient lies to prolong their existence 

 and power over the world. Because, if there is 

no quietude of such treachery, there should 

be no quietude in the rendering of its demolition!