Mother, shining with sunlight, I ask you a question?: A poem 

Do you think I can never have the seat of justice, 

no throne of truth? What would I do then, 

if an eternity passed me by, just wielding the 

philosophers’ stone, like a thingamajig 

without an iota of magical outcomes? 

What would I feel reposed on, a siege perilous? 

With everybody dancing in the darkness 

of self-preservation, not in tandem to my music? 

How would I know if there was any alchemy  

left in my bones; even as the sun shone 

in different tones; and I was reminded  

of the infernal fluidity of it all. Mother, 

do you think my heart has gold, because 

I never let it be sold! Mother, would I feel 

the love consolidated when you uphold 

all the things that I stand for; and feel the  

youth of my vision being vindicated in that 

warmth and never growing cold! 

Even though there are too many damp squibs 

that shed their moistened darkness on our fires! 

Do you believe in me, Mother, I am growing old? 

Even as I maintained my youth in my ancientness

I am not yet berserk with the thought that I’ll  

be left unfulfilled when my breath is punctuated 

Would my spirit be desiccated as well? Would I, if 

I failed to survive this, have somebody in posterity 

render my completion!