Knitting a facade into a flower.

It is a Climb atop
a scaffold meticulously drawn
with mounting pressures up on you,
a climb that inevitably draws you down,
mood of threnody weaves round ;
look down the demented soil
that wears a worn-out visage,
hunger and un augmented desire
inextricably knit into chaotic corruption.
Sprawling around cacophony of confusion,
a pointed peg pokes my collar ,
in between the spinning patches
of assurance, many stark revelations,
echoes of cropping revelations :
is it Maya or ignorance that
encapsulate me, or collective
connivance isolating you?
Ruminations into profundity
merged in rooted thoughts
into words into cavalcades
of mystic expositions.
A poetic flower blossoms:
Now you are fallen in wrong times,
Times are topsy turvy,
Topsy-turvy are Times’ values.