The elusive

Imagination is trapped
in words, 

when I say, Jesus

I cannot imagine him

playing the flute,

a hut has to stand
somewhere in a land,

it cannot sail afloat 

in a boat,

Krishna cannot find himself

in a mosque,

images that want to live

die in predicted captivity.

Through arranged letters,
are created, unconscious

waves of wars, 

they're meant to anchor ashore

like a vehicle of

communication, but on their way

they invariably hit hidden

icebergs, their fixed destinations,

like a mirage in a desert, 

are forever distanced 

in tragic destiny.

They bond, to depict reality
they're bound in sounds, 

lie in silent pages, to separate, 

yet expressions rejoice, 

in volumes of 

heard, unheard voice

in the illusion of liberty.