Brown faces turning to a beam of dim light
Being crushed by the feet of walking Sun
Like an old mill making the off-white flour
From whole grains of
Infected wheat

Who ate all the wheat pills?
Why is the invisible worm
Still surviving
On the bed of poisonous misery

Am I that mill owner?
Came here to record my statement
In front of the Honorable Jury
From Accountability Bureau
Of Black Sheep

Am I guilty?
Of making ashen flour out of
Infected wheat
When
I took all the precautions
I should had

Still it got infected
As it grew
From the buds of innocence
And withered slowly
Because of the dark-secret love
Of the unloved cankers

I asked myself again and again
These illogical questions
Only to make myself more delirious
Though
Reminiscence is still vivid
And I couldn’t find
A single miscalculation of mine
Yet
I do confess
That I am Guilty
Of cultivating a dying life

Though I took enough precautions
Though I relentlessly strived to keep it fresh
Though I constantly kept a vigilant eye
On all the possible hazards
Could had come to me
And to my crops
Still it got flaccid
Still it got wrinkled
With each knock
Of maturing chronometer


Oct 31,2008

Dr Kamran Haider Bukhari

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/aging-6/