For Rushdie

A mill on the grind

like gashes in the shingles

seats this heaviness on my mind,

hole up in the lobe of thoughts

a glossary of self in the face of fairness

a myth of a man walking backwards

Like a reed drifting in Sahara

to the dunes of lost memories

crawling in sparkling moments,

this body frame tucked in the scorch of fog lights that pelt strains in the eyes, 

arms rested on the rostrum of fame

fingers snacking on half bitten apples

a well scripted speech sprouts out of a tongue like leaves in a well-watered garden,

a slip to the backstage in the midst of men clothed in debonair aloofness

your life is an oceanic archival past

bearing the scale of thousands of moments in lonesomeness

these tongues are rural in taste

balls of bean cakes on your ashtray of gifting

the smoke filtering through your nostrils

you reclined in your thoughts

poking each plaque on the shelf for your literary merit

your adeptness is a mill forever on the grind

the embargo on the ambit of your ingenuity

aired with perfunctory platitudes

but here you are, laughter in the cleft of your cheeks,

it is all a myth,

the fear,

the tremor,

the frills of tomorrow

and the roars of darkness in the tusk of time.

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