Mavinda Cyril Poems

To each his own is baggage internal
Conceited that 'hope springs eternal'
I wonder how one'd destine infernal
A soul for having erred under bane
...

The rain, on the panes
Like a sallow river
Raging down the space
Leaves a shiver.
...

Time wreaks an unceasing itch
Onto lonely burden of my thoughts
Oft librates dense on the brink
As libations are poured into totes
...

Appalled by the oftenness
Of people cashing in chips,
I ponder o'er my odds, next
Time, mayhap my soul slips
...

Things I do to elute a conscience
Wreak intimal senses to be frank.
Not that feign-trained insouciance
Nor the surrogate emotion bark,
...