Crankshaft

Chinese made British beauty throttled to silence,

The mechanic rises to feel the beautiful rays of sun wishing him;

 

After a brief hiatus of regular dilly-dallying amidst the household cacophony,

The regular mandatory chores of the morning start – its eight now.

 

Newspaper lay idly at the doorstep waiting to announce the world,

The mechanic picks it up hesitantly puffing stale air of high risers ;

 

Green tea and diet breakfast enforces the first rule,

Has to be a strict gap of an hour at least before treading the moving belt;

 

Numbness prevails for the next hour when flies relish on his idle wrist,

The mechanic fires up the engine to commute to the holy shrine of health;

 

One needs to sweat to earn its livelihood, next hours contradict the theory,

Moving belts and heavy weights come at a cost, price to perspire;

 

French aftershave and American perfumes try hard to prevent,

Prevent the stink of the hollow soul as he strides towards the shrine of earning;

 

Korean beauty throws tantrums whilst it swerves its way through the logjam,

Hoi polloi race to take the pole position, enjoying the journey is a lie;

 

Japanese air conditioners work overtime to spawn cool yet stale air,

The mechanic blends with the logical world of fixing things,gapes and shrugs;

 

Noon gives away space to evening, lost birds seek direction,

Indigestible lunches give way to the acidic breaths, the air looms heavy – Its eight now;

 

Black smoke lurches out from the white sticks,

The mechanic seeks passion and inspiration from the fire, as it crawls closer;

 

Tired strides accompany heavy heads, as the dead strolls with the hallowed,

The dark beautiful night gets blinded at the stare of stark headlights;

 

Dark Korean beauty loves her way back, blending well with the pitch black,

The fool manoeuvres to make way while the driven enjoys the journey – Its eleven now ;

 

White shirted curious eyes looks for velvet necklines,

The mechanic breaths out slow, as he quenches his thirst gulping down the yellow;

 

Inhibitions rests, tight neck-tie loosens, voices reach crescendo,

Hard day is just a norm, breathing is life now;

 

Chips and chirps mellow down, as the bards and the birds seek direction,

The mechanic pushes hard the plush leather chair, done for the day;

 

Pain and pleasure don’t intertwine, foreplay does not play any part any more,

The road is travelled half, but then, journey is a lie, its the destination which matters.

 

Dreams dare to appear, as the crankshaft prepares for the next hard day .

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