Ode to the insane creator..

Mad poet
Eyes searching the empty canvas
For stains of dead dreams
Unruly poet
Clutching a quill
Which pours forth no poems
But life
In shimmering letters
Of ink that dries with time
You etch monopolies
Of your mind
Wanton poet
Why do you hide
The caravans of love
That drag your imagination
Across windy deserts of life
The crumbs which fall from your table
As words that capture moments
By the scruff of their neck
Pinning them to two dimensions
Eccentric poet
Full of rags for skin
That let your flesh hang out
In matted tassles
As truth.
With a sceptre-weilding pride
You roam mindscape
Your parched reality
Craving for inspiration.
Secret hoarder
I ransacked your treasure chests
They possessed no gems
Or polished stones
Nor gleaming metal
Of material.
In the crevices of your soul
I found an empty scabbard
A shredded dream
A stringless guitar
And me.

8 thoughts on “Ode to the insane creator..

  1. “Eyes searching the empty canvas
    For stains of dead dreams…
    […..]
    The caravans of love
    That drag your imagination
    Across windy deserts of life
    The crumbs which fall from your table
    As words that capture moments
    By the scruff of their neck…”

    Extremely vivid…and intense…

    Happy birthday, Lioness! More of a cusp, isn’t it…if your birthday is today? Have fun…:).

  2. Foo foo.
    He knows no fashion.
    He loves skin.
    Did he complain about those skin shows?
    Bitches. Bastards.

    But those half moons by an epitaph…
    He wants to die in there.
    Melon vines.
    Those fruits like moons.
    Most of them halved.
    Aberration, isn’t it?

    And then.
    That river. Opaque and green.
    Green of tender neem.
    And quicksilver.

    And then.
    The bitch on the road.
    The real bitch; female dog, that is.
    (Oh bad english should hardly matter)
    Four breasts by her tummy.
    A panel of puppies.
    Wonders why they call her a bitch.

    And then, the beach.
    His love!
    Billowing.
    Ah.
    Sylvan scultptures undulating.
    His broken pieces
    Are all in there.

    Foo foo.
    He sings.

  3. @ Pingu

    Thanks a lot for the wishes Pingu.. Am not a cusp.. proper lioness. πŸ˜‰

    Thanks for the comment as well..

    @Shashi

    You have lost it totally this time.. hahaha… madness!

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