It is a creation of convention, Set, fixed and fizzled, I am at the lowest dimension, Cut, grooved and toppled, I must lead a life of dope, Pointed out by horoscope. It is a pointed preclusion, Snubbing my determination, It is inert, stagnant For my spirit buoyant, When horoscope lets me down, Mind in me soars up, Emerging into an outer orbit, I get into a useful habit, I reside in my soul, Which has a beautiful goal.
A poem from ‘Serenading Poems Part One’
