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Sabu Francis

Closed Minds

My shelves don't have shutters;
books lay unbound, unfettered
They wander about the house
meaning beyond their covers

the guitar is not in its case:
it lay in the disarray
deep inside it, a tune;
struggling to come over

even the window is open:
bringing not just the light
but sparkling dust mites
tracking seconds, hours

Yet they say I am closed
Biased, opinionated, broken
For I am not like others
Keeping my stuff all so open