Ugly and Hideous (poetry eleven)

I desire mornings like the 

the night birds, preferably

owls. Ugly and hideous. 

 If you wish

you may call me

a poet, 

Because I feel juggling with them-

words. 

They ascend with my vocation, and in

flickering sunbeams

they disappear like

camphor.

Strange you be, 

so good with words but

what about

feelings?

You are 

like that pressure driven wind that rustles 

mundane leaves

only to nurture the silence of

warm afternoons.

You are like those children lost in

moon, only to be found at

tiffin breaks.  

You are not a poet, no, 

you are like

feelings shoved

in a coffer.

Yes.  

 So the story goes

 In this whirlwind of falling worlds

emotions are just motifs,

but still we

yearn,

don't we? 

We hope, hop, 

and hope.

This way or that way. 

We the children of

Down-fell

wait for our scaffolds.

We just wait.

 We long for that perfect bliss,

 we long for that perfect

 kiss, we wait for everything

 that is not solid, for

 everything that

 can vanish in thin air

 like that,

 every little thing that is 

  not

 Ugly and hideous. 

Some of us wait,

just wait,

for that perfect

perfection

of

Love.