If humans were formed
from dust, & poetry is human's meager attempt to reveal the beautiful or
sublime; the beauty of this dust from which we originated from is unsurpassed
-jmf 28 Nov 2011
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Once a man in his quest
to be poetic,
Twisted and mingled
words to find
Subtle beauty in meager
arrangements.
At birth of day;
When the day was ripe;
At death of day;
Even when the night’s
eye
Was sleeping, he searched
His dreams. Reaped them
apart;
Turned them upside down
and
Scribbled their charms
on memory.
Only to find hosts of
Re-arranged clichés.
Exhausted, out loud he
cried.
'Give me a drink of
thesaurus, and
Cigars rolled in pages
of a dictionary.
I'd be drunk with
beautiful metaphors,
And be high with unusual
rhymes that
Sing and dance. I’d sing
along and
Sprightly dance that our
voices may
Reach over vales and
hills
Till my mind’s ink is
drawn.
Yes! O yes, an echo on
shelf
Lonely and dusty
continues to sing.
On platforms or from behind
silent corners,
I'd care not because,
time …;
Would’ve dealt with me”.
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