Ischaemic Hands

Writing was never easy to come
Knocking my hemispheres there it was
Lurching around that broken plexus
It wouldn’t have stayed put
For my heart always is beating
Rehearsing those old learned chords
It definitely moved to different place
Where it could find solace
Time to think and mend the lines
Of those archaic ideas and thoughts
Gushing from the top, it soaked
My air sacs with tumult and roar
Odorous and filthy was the breath
Rummaging through those spaces
It ran down to the corpulent paunch
Where it guttered, and felt the hunger
The Desire to feed the flesh anew
Farting it came out of the bog
Rushing to the feet so pristine
It stayed and waited…
To seek respite from the task at hand
And soon realized that it overleaped hands
Alas! the writing was never easy
Especially when the hands go ischaemic.