The Ostrich.

                        The Ostrich

                Well bred,waiting to feed.
                Big in thought and word, betting to stir.
                Trained in spirit to recycle waste into use.
       
                Newness is a remake of the old.
                Newness is new to its fold,
                Like yesterday's cries of agony
                Transformed to today's outbursts of joy.
   
                To weep and laugh in original form,
                On a base of one's own stable norm
                Sets in motion,the stifled wings.

               The cry in anger, and that of hunger,
               Share the same dais,as allied forces
               Venting a feel of follow up precision.

               To shout is not always to be heard,               .
               As the sky is not ever, the only station.
               But to own a cry is one's own right,
               As to spread one's wings or slip them down.

               The inside flames fill riches as pure gold,
               In  peripatetic graphs of lateral lead,
               For my posterity's feed as yummy yield.

                                                                     P. Chandrasekaran.