This fire in the belly,

This gnawing octopus,

jaundicing my innards

with unheard plots and schemes

is stilled now .


The tales they tell .

My soul they sell

discounted and rebated

at half its worth .

Many seedling ideas

killed at birth .


The dreams are dead ,

the wings are burnt .

In embers lie ashes

of knowledge unknown .


Like Icarus

With wings of wax

I flew up to the sun

until the melt down .


A solo silent run

of no return .

© 2002 Sarala Kurup Jagan

Sarala Kurup Jagan has a passion for English literature, poetry, and oriental philosophy . Jagan is a retired banker and teaches undergraduates in English and French . E-mail the author at: saralakurup@hotmail.com