​Pic: Bob Dylan (Nobel Laureate 2016)

I input for some tunes today
Few outputs will expand in me,
few will shatter too.
The propagandist restless to jack in his wired propaganda,
Today the ear for a year is sad, a few dare to lose their sky.
Or the one coiling around each black face,
each day, the day as and when it dies too,
leaving tranquil chambers numbering in a few.
Some can’t see, some don’t, 
some don’t want to, some won’t
I appreciate the bright silver effort, which was, is and will be meaningless
nothing even in its absolute,
without a frameless or a frame.
Few frameless will expand in me,
few frames will shatter too, for a name.
I will name them seconds, as I am trying now
but what I have already missed is a million words within a million tunes
in an eagerness to punctuate my years in a sentence
and when years later, from now,
I too try tearing off a sanctioned roof, redo it,
standing beneath, on a fading lens
only to realise the final input is alot better
as is anything with the word ‘final’,
I will join the great one in everyone, I will joi everyone.
I will entrust my six feet diary to be kept,
or torn, to decay or not to
I will compose a final tune
Just hum it or let it get hummed
to let know, it’s similar
as a few of the outputs will expand in me,
a few will shatter too.


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