He announces his arrival,
in a long black robe, with a noose to boot,
as I scramble on all fours,
hanging on to dear life, before I fall into the black shapeless cauldron.
The rag picker meticulously wreaks havoc,
picking faces and memories, that torment my waking soul,
and parades around his bounty, weaving a web of stories,
mockingly,
so I don’t forget the borrowed life,
that I so dearly claim mine.

As reality rudely interrupts,
pulling me out by the scruff of my neck,
he recedes to the shadows,
sparing me, leaving me floating in warm waters.
But my soul, with countless punctures,
gropes around in the darkness,
for the thread it was hanging to,
that promised a new sunrise at every step,
blissfully ignoring the milestones of my waking life.

I walk around, like a headless chicken,
painting the canvas of realities that never were,
of realities that I lost,
of realities that were never mine to have,
half awake in this netherworld,
half accepting the faces that pass me by,
finally resigning to wallow in my pathetic state,
on a day the big black shape enveloped my night.

On a day he let loose my wandering mind,
kicking my precious house of cards,
that I lovingly built leaving my past behind.

Bert Sugar on Frazier in the Fight of the Century

His head bobbing up and down to the metronomic movement of his body, his mouth pursed, sucking air much like a fish out of water, Frazier moved in relentlessly – no qualms, no hesitations, no questions, just straight in like a hurricane – his right a mere throat clearing for his devastating left. Time and again he rocked Ali, until at last Ali, hit so hard he couldn’t even limp, joined the ranks of the walking wounded.

Life in clips of the immortal left hook…
http://www.guardian.co.uk/sport/blog/2011/nov/08/joe-frazier-life-video-clips

You, sir
who delivers a speech
with no practice
who
drives a car
giving a miss
to any farce
of being
an apprentice.
Why,
say you
should I waste time
and energy
testing bridges
when better things
await my blessing, ’cause
Glitches,
you say
will strike
come what may!
Trailblazing, you
leave your mark
for the rest
of us, innocent
to pick up
in your wake.
You,
my sir,
who moves on
lest any test
may reduce
the zest
of thou perfect code
running without
protection, in
production; You
my sir,
are definitely,
worth
more than a mention!

Couldn’t help but post this beauty by Emily Dickinson.

FORBIDDEN fruit a flavor has
That lawful orchards mocks;
How luscious lies the pea within
The pod that Duty locks!

One could write a book, filled with her poems, titled ‘How to say the most in the least number of words’.