The Barman’s string

As I grow beyond myself, I grow up within,
Searching for if I’m not what I am;
Else if I am what I’m not
And I grow up faster in and out of me.
The spirit that I thought to have won,
To be of my own has so silently
Caged me beyond all margins of liberty;
And, I stay immersed as motionless,
As vanquished as the hulks of Titanic.
Yet, do I crave to crown the name,
Or fame or the title or laurels or thorns?
Or do I only dare to immortalise all passions
Of youth latently spread upon my memories?
I look for, perhaps, those years and decades,
Those moments of mirth and sorrow,
That carried a proud identity so intently
Along stretched stairs of my follies.
I read on scriptures of life, of my own
And, attempt to explore a man in its image�"
Of an incomplete man despite Raymond’s
Boastful cloak�"to renew life’s licence.
Yes, Barman, as I am; Not a man alike the
Bur of a creeper, but of a bar for a sipper.
I was born amongst countless men, women,
Children�"dead or alive�"in this grand pub of world;
And at a tiny counter, half-lit, under a smoky veil
I have endlessly failed since to sell a pint;
Yet they keep me there as they wish
To see me fail and fail again until resigned.
I press my soul in, dress me up, and brace me
In that tavern floor; and the revellers join
And the Bar girls start the show, and
I fail not carrying my shameless self.
Upon my glistened eyes dance the images
Of society, relations, its myths and triumphs;
And, within my quavering soul burn pages
Of society, relations, the past and the future.
I stare on bids that swirl in gust�"
Fluent as a kite severed from its string�"
And, bargains flowing from lust to lust;
I watch on dancing swans of light
Leisurely fading out in murky night.
When the bells go, beats are gone
I journey back to my dingy prison�"
Of hundred years of solitude�"
And, put my blistered conscience on
Beneath the sacred Cross alone.
In quiet flame of candle’s glow�"
As decayed as have I or Bar girls been�"
I hear a placid tune’s flow
That’s played so near yet kept unseen.
Hours go and the night goes too,
The candle dies for dawn to rise;
I ponder who and what was sold�"
The Barman, Bar girls, moments or soul.
Upon wings of morn dance shining ray,
Dipping night into dins of day;
I listen on to hymn that plays
And whispers, “Neither you nor they;
In nights of delight, lust and pain,
Sold are not even the girls in chain;
But those who revelled to set bargain
And, souls get bankrupt, moments are slain”.

Reviews

[Hello, Goodbye]

Your are very creative and imaginative. I respect that and enjoyed this piece.