Rich but not free

munched by the sweat,

melted by pleasures of world,

tossed by ploys of nature,

playing hide and seek with,

with world together . . . 

Being honest,

I won't deny the sense of pleasure,

the craving, the little plays, fore plays,

putting up an act,

I kept magnifying the pleasure,

to make it as large, as playful as possible,

that taste of pleasure, transformed into tastier . . 

family secure, food secure,

life secure, everything secure,

but still with everything, the missing part grew and grew,

alas the voice of my heart couldn't stand,

and there I picked up Autobiography of Yogi

with it pleasures were not of tastes,

but were of tasteless tyaga,

even though it may not be as pleasurable tastefully,

but the freedom, openness of inner nature,

bloomed deeply with taste of tyaga,

I felt relieved, larger,

fed up with repeated foreplays of pleasure,

constant reminder of skin and manipulation,

but now, back to the square with further strong,

conviction and sense, as to how real foreplay,

lies with grandeur of nothinness,

lies in breaking the shackles of forms and prejudice,

breaking the prejudice,bribed by pleasures of the nerves,

 bribed by arrangements in name of secure life,

bribed by unwillingness to change within somewhere . . . 

but now I am raising my voice yet again,

unpetrurbed with whatever happens,

giving farewell to the pleasures of body,

marching towards the terretories away from the 

cranky shore of physicality , into the ocean beyond . . . . . .
I have had the cocktail of gossips, the coldness of logic,
the fickless that drives, the cowardice it makes,
but now I need to move on, I need to march  on . . . . . .
breaking the cowardice it made,
into the realms of beyond . . . .
here I am comming,
careless of how i am judged, catagorized,
insensitive to how much situations are pleasurable . . .
or what I am leaving behind . . .
ignoring what I created or will create,
undermining what pleasantness I lived in my gold coated cobweb . . .
for now it mean even more,
as I tremble and relapse once more . . .